


you are in my head

by mopeytropey (scriptmanip)



Series: when my heart is at war [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-06-04 18:14:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 50,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15152840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scriptmanip/pseuds/mopeytropey
Summary: Lexa is resilient and determined but open to change for the sake of her people.Clarke's strong will must ultimately overpower her doubts and fears in order to save lives.The conclusion to Part I.





	1. The Uncertainty Principle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uncertainty Principle: There is a fundamental limit to the precision with which certain physical properties can be known.

**_Summer_ **

 

When Clarke is feeling particularly selfish and a bit morose about her time apart from Lexa, she replays various moments of her last morning in Polis.

_"You're not making this any easier, you know."_

_Clarke is still short of breath, fingers sliding through Lexa’s soft, bed-mussed hair as she works her way back up Clarke’s stomach and chest, mouthing kisses across her skin. She can both see and feel the way a smile curves along her lips. At this rate, Clarke will never get out of bed, let alone through the front gates of Polis._

_“Should I leave you to your preparations then?” Lexa now hovers above her, a satisfied smirk just a breath from her own mouth as their legs slot together pleasantly._

_There’s still a good deal to be done before they depart—provisions and medical supplies, a final run-down with Raven on some procedural aspects of their sampling. And yet, Clarke can think of nothing productive beyond the bright green eyes and full lips within reach. She runs her hands onto Lexa’s neck, pulling down with a gentle urgency until Lexa complies. Her lips and tongue still carry the traces of her time between Clarke’s legs, and there is absolutely nothing that could drag her away from savoring every, single moment of—_

“Are we ready for travel in the morning, Clarke?” Even Lincoln’s gentle cadence registers as a harsh interruption to Clarke’s intimate musings.

He has noiselessly entered their small medical tent where Clarke is meant to be re-packaging supplies and tidying up so that they can collapse the tent before the sun sets. She clears her throat, scrambling to look as if she’s been working intently instead of caught in a mindless daydream about her sexual marathon with the Commander of the Kyongedon.

Clarke’s cheeks burn, even as she answers, “Yeah, um, I’m just finishing up here.” She clears her throat again for good measure before finally looking up to catch Lincoln’s unassuming gaze. “Have the most recent samples arrived in Polis yet?”

“A rider left with them over a week ago. We should receive a message of confirmation from Raven in another day or two.”

Clarke nods stiffly, her focus still clouded with dissipating images of roaming hands and soft, persistent lips. “Good. When I’m finished here, I’ll let Aabid know that he and the others can start dismantling the tents.”

When Lexa had initially offered additional support for their travels, Clarke had expected maybe an extra horse or two. In reality, she had delivered provisions that Clarke felt bordered on excessive. Horses, warriors, scouts and hunters, as well as a few fisa apprentices from Polis’ medical center to give them extra hands. Clarke’s attempts to refuse the gesture had been about as effective as most of her negotiations with the Commander—which is to say they got her nowhere fast. The additional help has led to improved efficiency in their collection methods as well as providing a way for samples to be returned to Polis for testing and examination. Clarke can’t say she isn’t grateful for Lexa’s generosity.

“Let’s hope things went more smoothly than last time,” Clarke adds, returning to her task with a heavy sigh.  

For all their progress, there have been setbacks, as expected in any experimental work. Clarke tries to celebrate small victories and shrug off incidents outside of her control.

(Such as losing entire collections of samples due to contamination during transport.)

Lincoln’s unrelenting support and calm logic had talked Clarke off that particular ledge weeks ago. She’d managed to stop herself from berating the clumsy, careless rider who was responsible, but barely.

 _Let it go and move on,_ Lincoln had encouraged.

Easier said than done when Clarke feels the weight of people’s lives in every vial of black blood that she collects.

“We are closer to understanding the composition of Natblida blood despite the mistakes made, Clarke,” Lincoln reminds her.

“I know,” she nods again, exhaling to force some calm. “I know.”

They’d had some beginner’s luck during the initial months of their travels, when it had just been Clarke and Lincoln setting off on their own and operating under their best educated guesses. Now, arriving into settlements with Heda’s personal gonakru and a team of fisa stamped with approval from the Commander herself, they are seeing cooperation and interest surrounding their work like never before. Over the past several months, Clarke has met with Nightbloods of almost every region and clan, collecting samples at all different ages.

“Where are we headed next anyway?” she asks.

“A larger city just west of here. Losvil. It is a training center for Natblida much like TonDC or Polis.”

Clarke tries not to groan at the prospect of heading even farther away from the coast. The work they are doing is of insurmountable importance, but she’s not above admitting that the months away have made her more than a little homesick. As the months have passed and seasons have changed, the temperatures are safer to arch back towards the west and now the north as well. Still, they’ve been landlocked for months, and the heat in this part of Coalition territory can be oppressive at certain times in the day. Clarke longs for salty, sea breezes and the sound of the tides, if not also the touch of familiar hands.  

She runs a few fingers across her damp hairline, feeling beads of sweat run down her temples—being inside their tents of heavy canvas only intensifies the stifling heat and humidity. “Do we know anything about the Nightblood population there?”

“At least four accounted for by our scouts. The fisa here also say a girl traveled west through this village on her way to Losvil. She was already fourteen winters at the time and has lived there for many summers.”

Clarke’s eyebrows shoot up with interest. “So, an older Natblida potentially?”

“Yes. She may be the eldest we’ve seen.”

“Great. Let’s get an early start then.”

:::

As she travels, Clarke continues to marvel at Earth’s resiliency. The human race had worked so tirelessly to change it, to destroy it, to deplete its natural resources without remorse. There is so little evidence of that now—the ground flourishes all around her. So much of it is yet untouched by human hands again, and it’s remarkable how the planet has healed itself in spite of the destruction that took place. There is still time for these new civilizations to do their own damage, but Clarke likes to believe that things are being handled differently this time around. Heda, at least, has had her impact.

Lexa once told her, _It was men who destroyed our past civilizations. Why should it not be women who rebuild this one?_

The city of Losvil, blessedly, sits on a body of water. The river is not wide as it slices through the large settlement, but Clarke is told that it stretches for several hundred miles through Coalition territory. She and Lincoln immediately gather with the leaders and Elders of this mixed clan—Sankru and Ingranrona cohabitating together under newfound peace of the Coalition. They construct their medical tents near the city center—greeting curious townsfolk, inviting questions about their presence, accepting local fares as generous welcoming gifts. And then, Clarke meets Indius.

She is a force of beauty and strength, quiet and calm like so many of the Nightbloods Clarke has known. Her hair is dark and straight, her shoulders broad, and her face like something cut from sandstone. Bronze skin and dark, penetrating eyes. Clarke is more than a little intimidated by her presence as she enters the healers’ tent standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Lincoln.

“Ha yun, Indius. Ai laik Clarke.”

Indius subtly inclines her head. “Hei, Clarke.”  

“Your city is beautiful.”

“It is a beautiful city,” Indius agrees with a slight smile, her eyes wandering about the open tent as if to reassess their surroundings. “But it is not mine. Ai laik Boudalan kom Nantahala.”

“Oh. Where is Nantahala? And, I’m sorry I didn’t ask before—would you prefer oso chich op your first language?”

“No,” Indius smiles again fleetingly. “English is stanop— _good._ English is good.” She takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I tend to speak between languages when I feel nervous.”

“Nervous?” Clarke laughs, feeling herself relax at the admission. “I promise you don’t have to feel nervous around me—I’m probably, like, one of the least intimidating people on the planet right now.”

Lincoln coughs a laugh of his own, and Clarke shoots him an affronted look over Indius’s left shoulder. “Circumstantial,” he says with an easy shrug, setting about the tent to tie back its flaps and allow a slight breeze off the nearby river to flow through.

“The point is, we’re here to try and help. And you’re always welcome to tell us that you don’t want to participate anymore.”

Indius nods, and then asks, “You wish to heal the weakness in our blood?”

“I’d like to understand it better,” Clarke sighs. “To see if there’s a way it can be … strengthened.”

Indius waits a few contemplative seconds before nodding slowly. Clarke sits, motioning to another small stool in the tent.

“We always like to start by getting to know the Natblida before we move onto anything else. Is that okay?”

“Sha,” Indius exhales, moving towards the offered seat and lowering herself onto it. Her large limbs dwarf the stool completely, but she looks moderately less tense now that they’re sitting down.

“So, Nantahala,” Clarke prompts again.

“It is a long way from here—a place of many trees and dense forests.” Indius’s dark eyes take on a distant quality, and Clarke smiles as she too thinks of a home far away.

The conversation is less forced from there as Indius relaxes into an easy rhythm of conversation. She talks to Clarke about her childhood, her training, and her formative years training in Losvil. Clarke listens intently, interjecting as little as possible, and then she hesitates with a deep breath. She always hates this part.

“You’re how many winters now?”

“I have just survived my twenty-third.”

 _Twenty-three years._ By far the oldest Nightblood they’ve met. Clarke feels a surge of hope that she doesn’t show any outward signs of illness.

“That’s great,” she smiles.

“How old are you?” Indius returns, and Clarke blinks in surprise.

“Oh, I turned nineteen about six months ago.”

“Nineteen wintams is also great,” Indius responds, her own a smaller, teasing smile.

Clarke exhales a laugh, cheeks blushing. “Thanks. Though technically, I guess I’ve survived just six winters on the ground. I was already thirteen-years-old when we landed.”

Indius’s eyebrows arch as her smile grows, and she mimes the height of a small child with one hand. “Merely a goufa then and already a traveling fisa—even more impressive.”

Even Lincoln chuckles at that, Clarke laughing in turn as the mood lifts. “Mochof,” she says, taking a little bow from her seat. She takes another cleansing breath, regrettably steering them back towards less cheerful subject matter. “Can you tell me if you’ve ever experienced any unexplained illnesses? Headaches? Prolonged fatigue? Or, some sort of ailment that persisted beyond a common sickness?”

Indius purses her lips, eyes narrowing in concentration. “I have a pain sometimes.” She raises her hand to indicate a spot just above her right ear. “Here. Beneath the bone. The tea given to me by the fisa does not always lessen the pain.”

Clarke’s eyes cut to Lincoln who sits nearby, discreetly taking notes. Headaches. Consistent with their previous findings. “Okay, and how often would you say you’ve been experiencing the pain there? The kind that won’t go away with tea?”

“Every few days.”

“And, what’s the severity? Is it very intense?” Indius frowns and Clarke rephrases. “Tona laudnes?”

“Yes. Very painful. At times I am unable to eat.” She shrugs her arms out in front of her, scanning her bared biceps disappointedly. “It is why I have lost much strength in my arms.”

A laugh escapes Clarke’s mouth before she can stop it, and Indius looks up at her curiously. “I’m sorry. It’s just you look … exceptionally strong.” Indius smiles at the compliment and Lincoln clears his throat, a subtle petition for Clarke to maintain some level of professionalism. “I just mean you look fit— _healthy._ There doesn’t seem to be any, you know, indication of loss in muscle mass.”

“Mochof,” Indius says, her dark eyes sparkling even as Clarke tries to remember her line of questioning.

 _Christ._ Maybe Raven’s previous accusations of her having a ‘thing’ for Nightbloods wasn’t that far off after all.

“Let’s break for the day,” Lincoln suggests lightly, standing to his feet and stretching. “We can go over the sampling procedure tomorrow. It has been a long morning.”        

Clarke takes a long breath. “Yes, good idea.” She is rarely unappreciative of Lincoln’s calming presence, not least of which when she’s making a complete ass of herself in front of beautiful women. “Stanop?”

“Yes,” Indius nods, standing to her feet as well. “Good.”

:::

“Increased headaches and nausea are no coincidence.”

“Yes. The similarities are there,” Lincoln agrees, scanning their logs from the past several months. “But the frequency …”

Clarke has been biting her lower lip anxiously. “I know. An increased regularity doesn’t sit well with me either. And with her age. She’s already the oldest Natblida we have on record.” She rests her forehead into an open palm. “Fuck.”

“Perhaps it is time to reconvene with Abby and Raven.”

That has Clarke sitting up, eyeing Lincoln with some trepidation. “Polis?”

Lincoln casually shrugs, but Clarke’s pulse picks up pace. “Our work out here has been necessary, but I wonder if our efforts in uncovering options for treatment might be more effective upon our return.”

As much as a part of her wants to jump at the chance of a long-awaited homecoming, Clarke hesitates to accept. “I don’t know. Do you really think we’ve collected enough variation among the population?”

“I think,” Lincoln carefully begins, “that regardless of the limits in our samples, we may be ensnared by time.”

Clarke thinks of the TonDC Natblida—the twins growing older and the innocent face of sweet, determined Aden. She thinks of Luna’s mysterious eyes and bright laugh. She thinks now of Indius, too. She thinks, most harrowingly, of Lexa.

_Running out of time is not an option._

“Let’s sit down tomorrow and go over the log together, review our notes,” Lincoln suggests at Clarke’s prolonged silence. “We can make a decision in a day or two.”

Still distracted by her darker thoughts, Clarke nods. “Yeah. Okay.”

:::

In the end, the decision to leave or to stay is made for them. Lincoln comes to her while she sleeps, crouched near the head of her bedroll and eyes gleaming even in the black of night. Clarke stirs at the sound of her name then bolts upright at the realization of someone in her tent.

“It’s okay. It’s me,” Lincoln whispers.

“Jesus—you scared me.” Clarke grasps the thin material of her shirt near her heart and takes a few deep breaths. As much as her heart races, she feels groggy still under the haze of sleep. “What’s going on?”

Ominously, Lincoln says, “You should come with me.”

She pads out of the tent in bare feet, still blinking the sleep from her eyes as they walk a few paces closer to Lincoln’s tent where a figure stands in shadows and leather armor. A warrior of the Commander, but not one of the handful traveling with them. Clarke’s shoulders tense as her eyes adjust in the darkness to the point of recognition.

_Octavia._

“What the hell is going on?”

“Your presence is required in the capital,” Octavia announces without preamble.

Clarke’s chest feels hollow. “Is Lexa okay?”

“Heda laik yujon.”

“I didn’t ask about her _strength_ ,” Clarke says through gritted teeth. “I asked if she’s okay.”

Octavia’s eyes cut briefly to Lincoln, and Clarke almost lunges for her throat in frustration at all this cloaked hesitation.

“She has begun to show very early signs of illness,” Lincoln gently supplies.

Clarke’s vision narrows and a numbing tingle crawls up the back of her neck. She reaches out, finding only air to cling to until Lincoln’s strong grasp catches her elbow to steady her.  “When—what—” Clarke struggles, swallowing thickly before she tries again. “What are the symptoms?”

“Heda falls asleep without warning, waking up moments later with no memory of it. There have been two occurrences in the past phase of the moon,” Octavia reports.

“Fainting spells?”

Lincoln concurs with a nod, still holding onto Clarke’s arm. “Octavia also suspects an onset of frequent headaches, though the Commander does not often admit to such pains that are easier to hide.”

“She has refused both Nyko’s and your nomon’s interventions several times,” Octavia shares.

At this, Clarke rolls her eyes. Of course Lexa would never concede to something as trivial and commonplace as a headache. “I swear to god, her ego will stay with her to the grave.”   

Octavia bristles at the comment, but Clarke doesn’t attempt to retract it. Maybe Heda’s death isn’t something that denotes flippancy, but Clarke has absolutely no intention of allowing Lexa to die before she has sufficiently berated her about being so, fucking stubborn. Something clicks into place for Clarke, and she turns to Octavia.

“If Lexa is refusing healers then she sure as hell didn’t ask for you to ride halfway across her territories to find me. So, who exactly is _requiring_ me to return to Polis?”

As much as Octavia is capable of looking anything other than smug and arrogant, she looks downright ecstatic as she reveals, “Anya.”

:::

In the morning, without having slept another second after Octavia’s abrupt appearance, Clarke stalks about their small encampment within the city. She is barking orders and making demands of anyone within earshot. It will take them at least a week to ride to Polis if they really push themselves, and Clarke doesn’t plan on wasting a single second. Eventually, Lincoln intervenes in his careful way, pacifying Clarke’s rampant urgency by redirecting her to Indius’s living quarters.

“I will come with you to Polis.”

Clarke gapes for quick seconds, her eyes widened by Indius’s announcement. “You will?”

She and Lincoln had propositioned a return to the capital with them, but Indius had her reservations about leaving Losvil—the only home she had known outside of Nantahala since she was fourteen.

“Sha,” Indius nods. “I have been to Polis only once before, during my Sadgeda. I have not yet met the newest Heda.”

At the mention of Lexa, Clarke again loses her train of thought, a cold-sweat panic running up her spine as she worries over her well-being and the immeasurable distance between them. She clears the mounting worry from her throat and tries to sound as calm and collected as Indius appears.

“I’d be happy to introduce you when we arrive.”

“Can you be ready to leave in an hour?” Lincoln asks.

Clarke’s gaze cuts to him in a fury. “An _hour?_ ”

She would have asked Indius to mount up within seconds. She would prefer to have left in the dead of night when Octavia first brought them the news. An hour feels like eternity.

“It will give us time to reconvene with the Elders and leaders of your city to express our gratitude for their hospitality,” Lincoln explains, pointedly avoiding Clarke’s eye and maintaining his placid timbre but very clearly making his point.

“Of course,” Indius agrees. “I will be ready.”

They depart the city as quickly as humanly possible—lengthy exchanges of graciousness between Sankru and Ingranrona dignitaries notwithstanding. As the sun reaches high into the sky, they have left Losvil and any sign of civilization in their wake. They follow the river as it winds northward, and before long they are again surrounded by a dense forest of trees.

:::

Over 700 miles of terrain has been logged into their journey since leaving Polis, and Clarke is still shit at horse-riding. Her legs ache and her posture is always too rigid. She’s improved only marginally over the months of constant travel, relaxing more into the jolt and sway. But, still shit.

“You look rather uncomfortable,” Indius comments, riding along beside her and smiling sidelong.

Clarke is grateful for the distraction from her racing thoughts. Even at a brisk pace their progression lags, and Clarke feels the frustration of their slow speed in every tense muscle of her body. When they travelled with less urgency from place-to-place, Clarke always preferred to walk instead of ride. Today, she wishes for the speed of a train or jet plane—ancient modes of transportation that she has only learned about in abstract. She would settle for a car, though given her track record with horses, she can’t imagine she’d be stellar at operating gas-powered vehicles either.

She forces herself to return Indius’s smile. “I’m not great with horses.”

Indius squints one eye, looking upwards into the greying-white clouds above them. “No gapas.”

At this, Clarke laughs and feels a sliver of her anxieties fall away. “Nope. No horses in space.”

“I should like to see it sometime.”

“Space?”

Indius nods, contemplative and eyes looking off into the trees.

There’s an old observatory tower in Polis with an incredibly well-preserved telescope. Wells had dragged her there almost immediately during her first visit—his eyes dancing and smile wide as they stood gazing into what felt like another lifetime. A home to which they would likely never return. In the end, they’d left the tower quietly with misty eyes and sullen, hanging heads. Parts of themselves had been left among the stars, and there was no way to retrieve them. Still, it had been exceptionally beautiful to see again like that after years on the ground. Suspending her disbelief, Clarke could look through the lens and almost, _almost_ pretend she was still on the Ark and peering out into a dark, endless cosmos.

And so she says, “I could show it to you, if you want.”

“I would like that very much.”

The time passes more easily in Indius’s company, and Clarke is almost surprised when the scouts report back that there is a settlement within an hour’s ride willing to host them for the night. They have abandoned the river’s edge to the north and are now headed due east. They won’t see Polis for several more days, but Clarke closes her eyes and imagines she can hear the sounds of distant gulls.   

:::

A soft summer rain falls between the trees and clouds hang heavy overhead as they ride into TonDC. The days have been long and the constant travel has been far from easy, but Clarke feels rejuvenated by the familiarity of the first home she knew on the ground. Spirits are lifted among their traveling party as the city nears and the river appears on the horizon—scents and sights full of comfort that Clarke has gone years without experiencing. Her jacket and pants are soaked through as they ride, the forest floor giving way to the narrow, muddied roadways that lead into TonDC proper. She’s so undeniably relieved to be less than a day’s ride from Polis, from _Lexa_ , that she can’t bring herself to care about the rain.

“This is your home,” Indius says, again riding beside her.

Clarke nods, not bothering to hide a broadening smile. “More-or-less, yeah.”

Indius’s mouth is open to respond when she slumps in her saddle without warning and falls to the ground in a limp, crumpled heap. Clarke jerks her horse to a halt, jumping from the saddle and diving to the wet ground near Indius’s head.

“Indius!” Clarke’s hands are gentle but urgent, searching for vitals and checking her pupils behind lids that have fallen closed. “Hei, Indius. Stomba raun, wake up. _Indius_.”

“What happened?” Lincoln is at her side in an instant and Octavia, too, hovers nearby while the remainder of their party slowly circles but keeps a good distance.

Clarke feels for a pulse then checks her breathing, answering Lincoln without looking up. “She just collapsed mid conversation. We were talking and then she just … went down.”

“Let’s get her to the healing ward,” Lincoln answers. “We can do more for her there than we are able to do out here.”

“Octavia, get one of the scouts to ride ahead and let the fisa know we need a bed for a Natblida and to steep a butterbur tea,” Clarke rushes to say.

“I’ll go myself,” Octavia says and disappears without another word.

Indius is still unresponsive but breathing and with a steady pulse under Clarke’s fingertips. Clarke looks up to Lincoln, who has already read her thoughts. “I will carry her with me on her horse.”

“Thanks.” Clarke looks down to Indius lying between them, swallowing roughly before looking back up to Lincoln. It feels like a premonition that Clarke isn’t prepared to accept. “We can’t lose her, Lincoln.”

“We won’t,” he assures, carefully lifting Indius from the ground.

:::

The healers’ ward is like stepping back in time. The cluttered shelving of tinctures and balms, drying herbs hung overhead, the long, wooden workbench where Clarke sat for hours learning her craft, and the water basins along one wall. Her thoughts are suddenly overrun with memories of her younger self—clueless but curious and eager to learn. She circles the small room used for training young fisa, somewhat amazed to be reliving sensations of a former life; and then, she sees Nyko.

He ducks through one of the doorways then pauses as he notices her there. Clarke barrels into his massive frame, wrapping her arms around him without a second thought.

Her voice cracks, emotions already too near the surface. “What are you doing here?”  

Nyko’s laugh is gruff and low. “I have worked here for countless seasons, yongon. Or have you forgotten in all your time away?” She has not felt much like a child in a very long time, but Nyko’s broad arms around her back make Clarke feel incredibly young and safe.

“I thought you were still in Polis.”

Even as Clarke pulls away to see Nyko’s kind eyes and warm smile, he rests a hand atop her shoulder. “Heda was in need of my help for a time, but the capital is not my home.”

_Lexa._

Clarke blinks, remembering her purpose, and her frantic urgency returns. “Lincoln brought in a Nightblood. Where are they?”

“She is resting and being monitored in another, more secluded ward.” He squeezes once to her shoulder cap. “Relax, yongon. She is in good hands here.”

“She’s been showing signs of illness—symptoms common to Natblida and the _weakness_ in their blood,” Clarke explains, carefully maintaining respect for Trigeda beliefs while speaking to someone who has cared for the health of countless Nightbloods over the years.

“Yes, I spoke with Lincoln. We have prepared several remedies for her ailments.” Clarke relaxes by at least a fraction in the presence of Nyko’s calm demeanor. “Come, Clarke. I will take you to her.”

:::

On their third morning in TonDC, Clarke seeks out Lincoln as dawn breaks through the treeline. “I have to get to Polis. I’ve already been delayed in getting there, and even though Indius’s health is incredibly important to me and the—”

“Clarke,” Lincoln gently interjects. “Go. I will stay with Indius here. She will be safe under mine and Nyko’s care until you are able to return or send word from Polis for her to be brought there.”

They were never meant to stay for more than one night, but Indius’s health scare has delayed their departure. She still hangs in a precarious recovery—not yet returned to her former self after a prolonged unconsciousness. She’s awake now, though she doesn’t open her eyes for long intervals. The pain in her head has intensified, and keeping her eyes closed helps to lessen its severity, if only minimally. Their remedies also have little effect, and any food she’s able to eat only comes right back up from a persistent, pain-induced nausea. Clarke and Lincoln continue to gently check her vitals, administer their very limited treatment of her pain, and hope for the worst to pass.

“Are you sure?”

“I am sure you will be of little help to her here while your mind is … elsewhere.”

They sit around a small, quiet fire just outside the hut where Lincoln has taken residence for their stay. Lincoln’s knowing gaze and delicate smile have her looking away into the dancing flames. His implications aren’t worth denying—her thoughts have been distracted ever since Octavia’s arrival in Losvil, and she hasn’t tried much to mask her worry for one Natblida in particular.  

“I’ll go with you.”

Clarke looks up to see Octavia emerge from the doorway of Lincoln’s hut, not yet fully dressed for the day and rubbing sleep from her eyes. Clarke returns a questioning if not unsurprised gaze to Lincoln, who merely shrugs and pokes at the fire. She will certainly take the time later for a full interrogation of his questionable romantic entanglements, but for now Clarke is more concerned with Octavia’s unexpected offer. They’ve managed an unspoken agreement of civility for over a week, yet there’s still the matter of their mutual dislike for one another always brewing beneath the surface.

“I’d rather go alone, actually.”

Octavia’s laugh is more like a scoff. “You would never make it on your own.”

“It’s a three-hour ride on a well-traveled road,” Clarke argues. “I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll be ready to leave in under an hour, Pichu.” Octavia grins, running a hand over Lincoln’s broad shoulder before returning to the darkness of the hut.

“I’m going _alone_. And stop calling me that,” Clarke shouts after her.

For someone that claims to be Clarke’s friend, Lincoln looks far too amused at the entire exchange. She kicks at his boot and scowls petulantly into the fire.   

:::

“Is this how you plan to finally kill me?”

They’ve ridden a relatively good distance away from TonDC, but the road has narrowed significantly, forcing them to slow the speed of their horses. Clarke looks over with a scowl to the sound of Octavia’s laugh.

“If you die under my watch, Heda will see to my execution with her own two hands.”

It’s a response she isn’t expecting, and Clarke is almost stunned out of her annoyance. Still, there is the implication that she’s somehow incapable of caring for herself. “I don’t need your protection.”

Octavia laughs again. “Yes, you are a fierce and brutal gona, Pichu.”

One hit. That’s all she needs to land is one, gratifying hit to Octavia’s jaw. It would fulfill a longstanding impulse, and probably also feel really good. Clarke’s hands clench into fists against the leather reins, but she refrains from a violent outburst.

“Okay, seriously? Why the hell do you call me that?”

“I suppose I could call you Heda’s niron, if you prefer.”

Clarke’s face flushes at the term of endearment, but her embarrassment is still clouded by confusion. “That doesn’t even—you’ve been calling me that since we were kids, Octavia.”

Octavia can’t possibly know what transpired on the night before they left Polis, but even still, Clarke doesn’t like the insinuation. Octavia ducks her head to avoid low-hanging tree branches, her mouth a subtle, contemplative smirk that Clarke really, _really_ hates.

“When your people first came to TonDC, I was not eager to welcome your strange, new clan.”

“No shit,” Clarke grumbles.

“All of you like helpless goufa—amazed by simple things like dirt and rain,” she recollects with familiar disdain. “You were soft, simple.”

Clarke scoffs. “I was _thirteen_.”  

“Lexa spoke on behalf of your acceptance,” Octavia continues, undeterred by Clarke’s interjection. “Of all Skaikru, but in particular …” she trails off, pinning Clarke with a lingering glare full of implication. Clarke flushes red again. “Heda has always been too protective, too willing to defend things that she doesn’t fully understand.”

“Lexa didn’t—I was never—”

“You were her little curiosity, Clarke. Her Pichu,” Octavia shrugs carelessly, as if she hasn’t just caused a massive shift to Clarke’s perceptions of their childhood.

“No. No way,” Clarke denies. “We never even talked, Octavia. I mean, Lexa rarely spoke to _anyone_ , least of all me.” It makes no sense, and Clarke shakes her head to clear it. She won’t allow her memories to be reshaped by someone like Octavia kom Trikru.

Octavia sighs, shaking her head in turn as the road opens up and they’re able to resume their previous speed. “I think Branwoda kom Skaikru might have suited you better.” She leaves Clarke with an eye roll, clicking her tongue to direct her horse into a trot.

:::

By the time they reach the gates of Polis, Clarke’s head throbs. Three hours in Octavia’s company has exacerbated her anxieties surrounding Lexa for numerous reasons. At the sight of Anya waiting for them at the front gate, those anxieties are only further compounded. Anya stands alone, but her presence has always been large enough to inflict a bone-chilling intimidation with a single look. Suddenly, Clarke fears for her life again.

“You were meant to arrive days ago,” Anya says, presumably to Octavia as she dismounts, though her eyes never leave Clarke.

“Detained in TonDC. The fisa have brought a Natblida from the western territories who fell unexpectedly ill,” Octavia reports. Her taunting arrogance is gone entirely as she addresses her superior general.

“Where is Lexa? Is she okay?” Clarke asks when her feet hit the ground.

Anya grinds her stern jaw, eyes flashing in warning at Clarke’s insubordination. Lexa is always Heda, first and foremost, even to someone like Anya, and must be referred to as such.

“I will take you to the Tower,” she says before swiftly turning to walk away.

Clarke leaves her horse for Octavia to deal with, adjusts the medical bag slung across her chest, and jogs to catch up with Anya’s brisk pace. She’s only just fallen into stride when someone collides into her side in an aggressively friendly embrace.

“Clarke, oh my god! You’re back!”

Anya’s innately protective reflexes result in her short sword drawn against Raven’s side and Clarke yanked from what was meant to be a friendly hug.

“Whoa, _jesus!_ ” Raven swats away the weapon like it’s made of harmless, blunted plastic and returns Anya’s glare like a reflection. “Get that shit off of me, asshole. What the hell?”

Clarke stumbles to rejoin them from where Anya had tossed her aside, presumably to save her life. “Hey, Anya, it’s fine. This is Raven.”

“I am aware of her existence,” Anya says coldly, sword still drawn as if Raven is a lingering threat.

“Okay, well, she’s my friend.”

“Yeah, dude—take it down a notch.”

Anya grinds her jaw in such a familiar way that Clarke is reminded that for years Lexa grew up in her shadow. “We do not have time for such frivolous interactions.”

“Well, you can _make_ time for me to hug my best friend who I haven’t seen in almost eight months, thank you very fucking much,” Raven fires back. “Maybe if you kept your bleirona away from my rib cage we wouldn’t be standing here wasting your precious time.”

Anya has yet to sheath her sword, and Raven has yet to back away from her menacing stance, forcing Clarke to finally intervene. She grabs Raven by the shoulder and pulls her in for a strong but quick hug. “I have to go, but I’ll come find you later, okay?”

“Yeah,” Raven grumbles, still angrily watching Anya over Clarke’s shoulder. “Everything okay?”

“I’m fine,” Clarke lies, heart racing and palms sweating as they stand in the looming shadow of Polis Tower.

“I have a lot of shit to fill you in on, Clarke. Your mom does, too.”

“I know. Me too. I’ll find you. I promise,” Clarke tells her as Anya is already moving away from their small, impromptu gathering. She leaves Raven where she stands, still watching Anya warily as she walks away.

“You continue to waste my time,” Anya bites out as they reach the main doors of the Tower. The guards at its entrance part for them without command, making way for their general as she stalks angrily through the front doors.

“I got here as fast as I could. We were over 700 miles away when Octavia found us.”

“And yet you allow yourself to be distracted by others when it is Heda with whom you should be concerned.”

“I _am_ concerned,” Clarke scowls, following Anya onto the lift without thinking. “Believe me, I don’t want—”

Clarke freezes as the gated doors clang shut, but it’s too late. The lift has already begun to move, slowly churning them off the ground floor. She reaches out to grasp for handles or supports that aren’t there, and Anya momentarily stops glaring to observe her strangely.

“It raises op and lowers daun within the Tower’s many levels.”

“Yes, I understand its function I just—” Clarke’s spine goes rigid as the lift jolts with a squeak. At least it was a quick ride. “I don’t like using it. I prefer the stairs.”

She hurries to exit as soon as the guard riding with them opens the doors, and Anya follows behind her at a slower pace. “I have clearly made an error in requesting your presence to attend to Heda if you are unsettled by something so mundane as the Tower lift.”

Offended, but also curious, Clarke folds her arms across her chest and follows Anya down the darkened corridor. “If you despise me so much, then why did you ask me here?”

They pause just outside a set of tall double doors, not unlike the doors to the throne room. Muffled voices can be heard from the other side, though nothing distinctly. Anya regards her solemnly for several long beats of silence. “You will not let her die.”

The words hit her square in the chest. Clarke suddenly feels immobilized by such weighted responsibility and struggles to respond. “I’m not—I mean, I don’t know that I’m that skilled yet as a healer.”

“No, perhaps not,” Anya responds. “But you are irritatingly stubborn. And I am counting on that to keep her alive.” She pushes through the doors a moment later, and Clarke is left dumbstruck from Anya’s backhanded confidence until she picks up the unmistakable timbre of Lexa’s soft voice.    

Much of the Tower can seem cold and dark—kept so even in the summer months by its stone walls, cement floors, and general lack of windows. Clarke enters a room which is large and spacious with plenty of natural light from open windows that circulate a warm, constant breeze. Lexa does not see them enter because of where she’s sat—low to the ground, surrounded by fifteen or so yongon and rapt with their small, excitable voices and wide eyes. Their clothes, their hair, their collective demeanor is unmistakable: _Natblida_. Clarke smiles at the image. The group of children are regulated by a handful of other women who stand nearby. Heda, though, allows the Nightbloods to speak without restraint, in tune to their curiosities and excitable mannerisms. Clarke stops beside Anya off to one side, and together they watch the lesson unfold.

“There is no power in brutality, but one will always find strength through …” Lexa prompts.

“Compassion!”

“That is also one of the pillars of leadership!”

Lexa smiles as the youngest Natblida are gently scolded for shouting out of turn by the women charged with their education, but her smile slowly fades as she looks up and her eyes land on Clarke. Holding her breath, Clarke tries to read Lexa’s expression from such a distance and after so much time. Lexa looks away before Clarke can exhale, returning her attention to the children who hang on her every word. Clarke breathes out, feeling as if she has been struck with a blunt object in the chest, and relief floods over her.

There is no doubt that Anya’s concerns for the Commander’s health are entirely founded, and Clarke has every intention of running comprehensive tests to determine the severity of Lexa’s symptoms. But for now, she basks in small comforts—Lexa is breathing and speaking and appears to be feeling well. More than a week’s worth of stomach-churning anxiety begins to ebb as Clarke watches her, but then her gaze falls on a familiar face.

She turns to Anya and whispers, “Is that Aden?”

The soft-spoken Nightblood with sandy hair and speckled cheeks is older, taller. But, even after the years since Clarke has seen him, he retains his boyish face.

Her expression does not shift to show signs of annoyance, but Anya’s low tone of voice takes on that of an exasperated older sibling. “Heda made demands to have his education moved to Polis almost immediately following her Ascension. He has trained under her care ever since.”

A macabre thought flashes through Clarke’s mind without warning: _Preparing for her death even then._

She watches Aden’s subtle movements, his posture, the jut of his chin as Lexa continues to speak. “She’s grooming him.”

“That is what she will tell anyone who asks. But, I think we both know that Heda’s greatest weakness has always been her sentimentality.”

Clarke’s head snaps to the left as the implication registers, but Anya remains as stoic as ever without granting her eye contact. First Octavia, now Anya making insinuations about her relationship with Lexa, and Clarke has about a hundred questions for them both. There’s no time for a response before the lesson has concluded, which means Clarke’s questions will continue to go unanswered. The Natblida are filed out of the room as Lexa gracefully stands and heads in their direction, not hurrying but visibly eager. Clarke’s heart thrums in anticipation as she watches Lexa’s pleased expression and relaxed posture during her approach—the Natblida, it seems, are good for Heda’s disposition.

“Clarke.”

Sometimes, she thinks that she could live in the sound of that single syllable, and Clarke’s eyes almost fall closed at hearing it again.

She has forgotten what it’s like to feel muted by Lexa’s presence. Clarke swallows, straining for composure, but still her voice scratches softly as she answers. “Hi.”

Over the years, there has almost always been a distance between them—gaps of time and geography. Now there is an added sense of longing as well. Clarke left Polis with indelible marks across her skin from Lexa’s touch, and now she’s here, within reach after too much time apart. She wants to reach out and grasp Lexa’s wrist to feel her steady, rhythmic pulse. She wants to tell her: _I got here as quickly as I could._ Clarke takes a steadying breath, and Lexa’s eyes soften at whatever she sees in her expression. The moment stretches, and it’s fairly safe to say that neither of them have bothered to consider Anya’s continued presence until she unsubtly clears her throat.

“I was not made aware of your return to Polis,” Lexa eventually says. Though it is not accusatory, her gaze slips briefly to Anya before returning to Clarke.

Clarke’s mouth drops open to respond, but it’s Anya’s voice that answers. “I made a request of the Skai fisa’s presence.”

Lexa’s soft looks are gone in a flash as a cold betrayal darkens her complexion. The transition is terrifying to say the least, and Clarke wonders just how brutally Anya will be chastised for going above Heda’s authority.

“Yu na spek daun oyu Heda,” Lexa growls in warning.  

Anya, unfazed by Lexa’s roiling anger, remains blank-faced and calm. “My respect for you begins with your safety and your continued health.”

“I told you I am fine, and yet you go behind my back like some dishonest bushhada—”

“Lexa, hei.” Clarke steps between them, trying to break Lexa’s quiet tirade at a person who is essentially more like family than loyal subject. “Can you give us a minute, Anya?” she asks, eyes never leaving Lexa’s hardened face. After a mild hesitation, Anya leaves them silently, and Clarke exhales. “She cares about you.”

Lexa’s eyes stay locked on Anya’s exit. “She has an odd way of showing it.”

“Anya just wants you to be well, Lexa. She’s worried.”

Lexa steps away in a huff, pacing near the open windows. “She ignores my authority and acts outside of my direct command.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes the people who care about us the most are forced to go against what we think is best.” Lexa stops pacing but does not turn to face Clarke, placing her hands behind her back and clasping them together. “You know, if you’re going to be mad at someone, it should be me.”

Lexa turns her head over her right shoulder, not quite making eye contact, though Clarke can now see her profile backlit by the bright, afternoon sun. Her voice has lost much of its acerbic bite as she says, “I have no reason to be angry with you, Clarke.”

Clarke moves towards her slowly with a heavy sigh. “If it weren’t for my research into the Nightbloods, Anya probably wouldn’t give your health a second thought—at least not this aspect of it. This _weakness_ in your blood was all an accepted part of the Natblida lifespan until I started digging around for a way to fix it.”

She pauses beside Lexa and looks out the open windows before them. They aren’t that high up in this room, and Clarke can still make out the different faces of people milling around the markets of Polis center. As happy as she is to see Lexa, to be standing beside her, the reality of her task weighs heavy on her chest. A surge of emotion lodges in her throat, and Clarke swallows it down—the enormity of what she’s trying to do getting the better of her.

“I’ve given people like Anya hope of an alternative outcome without actually finding any kind of solution, and now you’re—” Clarke bites hard against the inside of her cheek as tears prick the corners of her eyes. She blinks them away even as they burn, but Lexa has already turned her head at the sound of Clarke’s voice breaking.

“I am fine, Clarke.” Her voice is as soft and sure as it’s ever been.

“You’re not though,” Clarke says, turning now to face Lexa fully. “We both know that.”

“We know what we have always known.”

“The headaches? The fainting? I know you don’t feel well, Lexa.”

It’s now Lexa who exhales wearily, her rigid posture falling slack by fractions. “The headaches are merely an indication of fatigue.”

“Lexa—”

“When they began, I had just returned from a long trip to the North. It was … taxing.”

The information is an adequate distraction from Clarke’s worries, at least for an instant. “You went back to Azgeda? Why? Is everything okay?”

Lexa looks satisfied, if not also exhausted. “The queen has been overthrown. Roan delivered on his prediction, and Ontari kom Azgeda now reigns a much less violent people.”

“Oh my god. Have they joined the Coalition?”

Lexa purses her lips. “Not as of yet.”

“And the queen?”

“Ontari and I saw to her banishment personally.”

“There wasn’t an execution?”

Lexa flexes her jaw in that minute, contemplative way. “Death would have been too kind an end for someone like Nia. She will live out her days in the Dead Zone in complete solitude.”

“Wow. Okay,” Clarke sighs, getting back to the topic at hand. “Well, if the headaches are from _stress_ ,” Clarke concedes with no small amount of doubt, “then how do you explain the fainting? These are symptoms in line with what we’ve been seeing—”   

“Will you join me for lunch?”

“I—what?”

“I have not yet eaten. I can have the kitchens prepare a meal to be delivered to my quarters. Unless you have other matters on which to attend.”

“Lexa, no. We need to—”

“It would be unfortunate, I think, to experience one of these fainting spells in your company simply from a lack of food.”  

Lexa’s green eyes dance with mirth, an eyebrow arched teasingly as she moves towards the door of the room. Clarke scowls, nevertheless following after her. “You have a really terrible sense of humor. Have I ever mentioned that?”

The doors open before Lexa has even reached them, as if the guards standing post on the opposite side had already sensed her approaching. “As fond as you are of insulting me, it is quite likely that you have,” Lexa says as they exit.      

Clarke boards the lift after Lexa with slightly less trepidation than before, though her palms still sweat as it grinds into motion. “Once you’ve eaten, you’re going to let me do an evaluation of your symptoms.”

Lexa exhales a short puff of air through her nose, rolling her eyes, but does not otherwise respond. Clarke has pressed herself flush against the back wall and stands rigidly while staring at the decorated backs of the guards who ride with them. Ryder, whom Lexa has by her side almost always, wears his lighter, summer armor which reveals cascading tattoos down his neck and across his shoulder blades. Clarke is unsuccessfully distracting herself from a paralyzing fear by examining the dark-inked patterns when Lexa shifts minutely to rest their shoulders together. The gesture is unassuming and subtle, but Clarke can feel her spine relax in an instant from Lexa’s comforting proximity.

Lexa makes no further efforts to reach out to her, each keeping their eyes forward and saying nothing, but her closeness is enough to soothe Clarke’s nerves. It’s a striking realization that, anxieties over Lexa’s health notwithstanding, she also just really missed being around her. She missed her voice and her mannerisms and even her maddening arrogance. It’s impossible to know what will happen in the coming weeks and months—how their lives will continue to evolve, or what tragedies await them. But for now, Clarke exhales and enjoys the solid pressure of Lexa’s arm against her own.

 :::

Outside of Lexa’s room, Sarak stands chatting with another young woman, who Clarke quickly learns is one of Lexa’s regular handmaidens. Their friendly conversation stops abruptly in Heda’s presence, but their faces remain open and inquisitive. Deferential but obviously comfortable. It speaks to their close relationships with Lexa, and Clarke is warmed by the thought of her having made friends with those around her despite her elevated status.

“Some lunch would be appreciated, Aasma. Clarke will be joining me as well.”

“Sha, Heda.” The handmaiden offers a curt bow before sweeping off to the kitchens.

Sarak opens the door for them, and though Clarke can’t be sure, she would swear that she’s smirking in Ryder’s direction as Clarke passes by into the room. Either the notion of being alone in Lexa’s room after several months apart is making her paranoid, or the staff that attend to Heda most intimately are absolutely clued into their evolving relationship. Lexa neither seems to notice nor to mind, moving towards the sitting area with an elegant carelessness. Clarke follows with a bit less grace, awkwardly pausing near the collection of worn furniture as if she isn’t sure where to find a seat.

“Would you like to sit?”

“Yes,” Clarke answers stiffly, her pulse suddenly racing as the door clicks shut and they are left alone. She shifts her weight on nervous feet and adjusts the strap of her bag. Lexa watches with barely masked amusement.

“Tell me about your travels,” Lexa requests calmly, and Clarke finally sits with an exhale, removing her bag.

“Um, okay.” They share a small sofa, enough space between them that Clarke can still angle her body in Lexa’s direction without touching. “It was … good. Long, but good.”

“And you saw some success in your work?”

“Yes and no. I mean, we did for sure. In a lot of ways we were very successful in our explorations. Traveling over such a great distance was really intense, though. Not what I’d expected, I guess? Informative, educational. The lands are thriving and the people we met were, I don’t know, kinder than I’d anticipated. I thought we might be seen as intrusive, but people were usually very receptive.

“There’s such diversity to each settlement, but also this kind of collective agreement towards civility and a common good, you know? It was really … _refreshing_. I feel like we really got to see the effects of the Coalition firsthand.” Clarke rests her elbow along the back of the sofa and props her head in her hand, smiling in recollection. “We met this one guy, who must’ve had like six kids, which is still so crazy to me as someone who grew up under such restrictive conditions on the Ark, but—” Clarke stops speaking abruptly as her eyes catch the look on Lexa’s face. A kind of soft, observant smile that makes her feel like she been talking with remnants of breakfast in her teeth. Her fingers almost reach for her mouth out of instinct just to check. “What?”

“Nothing,” Lexa says, still with that look. “It was very … quiet while you were gone.”

Embarrassment floods Clarke’s cheeks from having rambled on, even if Lexa doesn’t seem necessarily bothered. “Are you insinuating that I talk too much?”

“Yes.” Before Clarke can feign offense at Lexa’s casual criticism, she has reached for Clarke’s fingers and gently pulls them nearer to her lap. “I’ve missed it.”

Clarke’s stomach swoops and her mouth goes dry, fingers clumsily latching onto Lexa’s until she can feel the worn calluses from Lexa’s fingertips against her palm—their first proper contact in almost eight months. “You mean to tell me Anya doesn’t talk to you incessantly when no one else is around?”

At the mention of Anya, Lexa’s adoring looks are shuttered behind a tense jaw and darkened eyes. Clarke wishes she hadn’t ruined the moment with her nervous attempt at humor, but Lexa hasn’t pulled her hand away even if her mouth is now a hardened scowl.

“Hei.” Clarke tugs on their joined hands until Lexa reluctantly returns her gaze. “You’re going to have to talk to her about this eventually. And, you’re just going to have to get over the fact that there are people in your life who care about whether you live or die.”

Lexa continues to frown, her gaze dropping to the small section of sofa between them where her fingers trace patterns on Clarke’s palm. When she looks up, her features look softer again. “Are you one of those people, Clarke?”

“Me? No,” Clarke scoffs, eliciting a more pronounced smile from Lexa’s smirking mouth. “Anya, obviously. Octavia. Gustus. Sarak, _maybe_.” Clarke shrugs, nevertheless notching her fingers between Lexa’s. “I don’t really care either way.”

Lexa hums, still smiling. “Is that why you abandoned your research in favor of a return to Polis for fear of my health?” she challenges, an eyebrow arched above one eye in such a way that Clarke resists an urge to shift in her seat.

“I did not—” The lie she was about to tell is interrupted by a brisk knocking at the door.

Clarke wrenches her hand away from Lexa’s loose hold and folds her arms across her stomach as Lexa clears her throat and straightens her posture. There have been no implicit indications that what they’re doing—whatever the hell it is—should be kept secret. Still, Clarke feels that some decency and propriety is implied in Heda’s rank and title and continues to take cues from Lexa herself.    

“Enter.”

At the sound of Lexa’s voice, Sarak swings open the door for Aasma who carries a tray full of food and wears a bright grin. She places the tray delicately onto the table in front of them without instruction, and Clarke wonders how often Lexa takes her meals in this casual seating arrangement instead of at her more formal dining table in the adjoining room.

“Mochof, Aasma.”

“Anything else, Heda?” Aasma stands before them, hands clasped behind her back.

“No, that will be all. Clarke, does this food suit you?”

The large wooden tray is literally overflowing with fresh breads, fruits, and cheeses. Clarke immediately salivates.

Surprised to be included in the conversation and always thrown by Lexa’s more formal cadence when directed at her, she nearly stutters. “Yeah, this all looks amazing,” she smiles up at Aasma. “Thank you.”

The handmaiden nods cheerfully, bowing again to Lexa before making her exit where Sarak still stands at the open door wearing that same, subtle smirk. Lexa scoots to the edge of the sofa as the door closes and Clarke follows suit, unintentionally bringing their legs close together so as to be nearer to the food. Her heart thumps wildly at their new proximity, but Lexa appears perfectly collected as usual. Clarke wonders if years of learning to restrict her emotions and control her reactions makes it easier for Lexa to keep calm in tense situations, or if being this close simply doesn’t have the same effect on her.

“Hungry?” Lexa asks, and Clarke looks over to see her cheeks have turned a lovely shade of pink.

 _Not totally unaffected then,_ Clarke smiles.

Lexa has reached for an apple slice and delicately bites it in half with a quiet crunch, bringing Clarke’s attention to her mouth. Famished but also immediately flustered at memories of where that mouth has been and the things it has done, Clarke clears her throat and looks down at the tray of food. They are entirely alone without risk of interruptions for the first time since that last morning together, and Clarke’s mind races with all the things that transpired before she left Polis. How Lexa sits beside her, quietly enjoying apple slices in a picture of serenity, is beyond her.

“Yes. Starving.” She clears her throat again and grabs the first thing within reach—a handful of grapes—and pops two or three into her mouth. “Octavia had venison jerky to eat during our ride from TonDC, but I’m convinced she gave me the smallest piece and kept the rest for herself.”

A beat of silence and then Lexa says, “It was Octavia whom Anya employed to locate you then.”

“Yeah.” Clarke looks over in hopes that Lexa’s mood hasn’t soured again at the news that not one but _both_ of her best friends sold her out, but she only looks contemplative as she digests the new information. “She found us near the Sankru-Ingranronakru border. We were in a city called Losvil.”

This has Lexa raising her brow, hand poised over another apple slice. “Losvil is a great distance from Polis.”

“I know,” Clarke nods, reaching for a knife to spread soft cheese onto a piece of bread. “It took us about a week to reach TonDC, and that was only because we rode extra long days. It probably should have taken longer, but …”

“You were eager to return,” Lexa supplies, her voice that soft, timid quality that Clarke thinks is probably heard by no one other than her. Inquisitive and uncertain, wholly vulnerable.  

“I was worried.” She holds Lexa’s gaze, the food in front of them entirely forgotten. “I needed to make sure you were okay.”

For all their scant moments of intimacy, it’s always been Clarke to initiate. This time, Lexa leans towards her slowly, eyes searching and lips already parted. If Clarke has ever felt intimidated by her, it is in this moment. She doesn’t allow her eyes to fall closed until the last possible second—the moment their lips touch and Lexa releases this small, quick breath against her cheek. The angle is a bit off, sitting side-by-side, but Clarke can’t bring herself to care when Lexa’s tongue skates across her lips, apple-sweet. Clarke sighs.

Kissing Lexa carries the excitement of new discovery wrapped in the comforts of warm familiarity. Their encounters have been infrequent and always too brief, but Clarke remembers each moment distinctly—no matter how insignificant, she has always held them securely against her chest. Lexa’s hands curl around the back of her neck, and Clarke knows their soft pressure. She slides hands onto Lexa’s waist and thigh, and Clarke knows how Lexa’s breath will catch at the added contact.

Clarke already needs more—so _much_ more—but she is also too aware of the dirt and sweat and grime from the ride between TonDC and Polis. She and Lexa have always been limited by any number of constraints. They likely always will be, but she’d like to do things differently this time. She wants something slow and soft, without the rush of urgency and impending separation.

Lexa’s mouth grows more insistent, pressing hot and desperate against Clarke’s own. She moves to reposition them along the sofa, straddling Clarke’s lap until she falls back against the armrest; Clarke nearly gives in to it right then, cleanliness be damned. But she knows what she wants, and this isn’t it.

“Lexa, wait.” Lexa does just that, immediately pulling away with eyes searching and breaths heavy through parted lips. “I’m just—” Clarke swallows, finding it incredibly difficult to form logical speech patterns with Lexa’s weight in her lap and eyes a blazing, vivid green.

“I’m sorry,” Lexa says, moving as if to give Clarke space.

“No, stop—come back here!” Clarke grabs fistfuls of her shirt to lock her into place, and Lexa stops trying to move. “Don’t apologize. I want this with you. A lot.” She smiles, cheeks flushing at the admission, but Lexa relaxes against her and returns her small smile. “It’s just, I spent the entire morning sweating on a dusty road. I probably smell like a horse.”

Lexa’s grin only grows, lowering herself again so that she can kiss Clarke’s neck just below her ear and beneath her jaw. “I think you smell fine.”

“Well, I don’t want this to be _fine_ ,” Clarke laughs, gasping when Lexa takes an earlobe into her mouth. “I’d like to have a bath. Wash my hair.” Her hands slide up and down Lexa’s sides, finally settling on her trim waist. “I’ve spent months thinking about this. I want it to be … nice.”

Lexa pulls back again to look at her for several, long seconds. “You were on my mind as well.”

When she kisses her again, it’s soft and sweet. The urgency is gone, but Clarke nevertheless holds her in place, not ready for this moment to end. They may never have the novelty of time, but for now Clarke wants to pretend that they do. She wants to be reckless and youthful, a little selfish with this girl who will never belong to anyone because she has sworn herself to everyone.

After a few moments of long, languid kisses, Lexa finally sits up and pulls Clarke with her until they are again sat side-by-side. Lexa’s cheeks are flushed and her hair a bit tousled when she looks over at Clarke with a lopsided grin and offers an apple slice.

Clarke takes it with a short laugh, popping the whole thing in her mouth. “Mochof,” she says around audible crunches.

Their legs are pressed together from hips to knees, and Clarke can feel the warmth of Lexa’s skin through the thin material of her pants. She drapes an arm across Lexa’s thighs, leaning over her to reach a piece of hard cheese and more bread. She offers the bread to Lexa, who accepts with a persistent smile and a kiss to Clarke’s shoulder. They continue eating in this way—small offerings to each other of fruit and cheese and soft-baked bread in-between short kisses or lingering touches. It feels like one of their most intimate exchanges, and Clarke wonders how many more like this they’ll get to have.

“I should go find Raven,” Clarke eventually sighs, wiping the corners of her mouth with a soft, linen napkin. “And my mom.” She turns towards Lexa more fully, easily finding her hand and weaving their fingers together.

“Aasma can show you to one of the available guest quarters if you like. I will ask her to have a room prepared with a hot bath.”  

“That sounds really nice.” Clarke leans forward, unable to stop herself from a quick press against Lexa’s soft lips.

Lexa’s nose is scrunched as Clarke pulls away. “Now that you mention it, I am detecting the musk of horse hair.”

“Stop trying to make jokes!” Clarke laughs. “You’re really bad at it.” She jabs a retaliatory finger into Lexa’s stomach, attempting a frown at her taunting gaze.  

“Aden often finds me quite humorous.”

“Aden is incredibly biased and thinks you hung the moon,” Clarke retorts, but she’s warmed at the idea of Lexa’s relationship with the younger Natblida—something less stringent than some of her own experiences maybe. Open and supportive, honest. Loving, too. As Heda, Lexa has proven to be so much more capable as a complex, dynamic leader of her people than many of her mentors gave her credit. Clarke isn’t ready to lose that, what Lexa stands for and who she’s become, no matter how highly she speaks of Aden’s abilities to lead. “You need to come see my mom at the medical facility.”

“Clarke,” Lexa exhales through a long-suffering sigh.   

“No, this isn’t a negotiation. You’re experiencing symptoms directly related to your night blood, Lexa, and I want you to undergo a comprehensive evaluation.”

Lexa purses her lips and looks away. She doesn’t have to agree, Clarke is no longer giving her a choice in the matter. “You will take my blood?”

“We’ll take samples, yes. Just enough to run some preliminary tests.”

“ _You_ will take my blood,” Lexa emphasizes as her gaze returns to Clarke’s. “I do not wish for anyone else to perform this task.”

“Yes,” Clarke answers softly, somewhat stunned by the trepidation she can see darkening the calm color of Lexa’s eyes. She isn’t just uncertain or suspicious of the procedure; she’s afraid. “I’ll do the samples myself, okay? We can be in the exam room alone during the blood draw if you want.”

Slowly, Lexa nods. Clarke squeezes to her fingers where they are still joined, almost wishing Lexa would make another poor attempt at humor just to erase the worry now clouding her features. Even as Clarke leans towards her, Lexa’s face remains full of doubt; but, she meets her halfway.

:::

“I’m fine, Mom. I promise.” She is wrapped in Abby’s unrelenting embrace, rolling her eyes at Raven over her mom’s shoulder.

“Okay, but I’m still doing a full work-up,” Abby warns, pulling back to look Clarke square in the eye. “You’ve been gone for months, traipsing all over the territories.”

“I’m exhausted, but other than that—I really am okay.”

“We don’t have to talk about any of this research material now. You should get some rest.”

Bone-tired, aching exhaustion threatens to consume her at any minute. Clarke shakes her head. “I don’t have time to be tired.”

Raven jumps down from the shiny steel exam table where she’d been dangling her legs. “Cool, let’s get you up to speed then. We’ve found so much shit since you’ve been gone, Clarke. You have no idea.”

“Nightbloods?”

“Oh yeah.” Raven reaches for a collection of large, blue binders that are stacked along one wall of the room. “Like, pre-Nightblood Nightblood shit.”

Clarke moves towards her, leaning over Raven’s shoulder as she pulls open the first binder. “What do you mean?”

“The Nightbloods were _created_ here, dude.”  

The air leaves Clarke’s lungs. “Created?”

“From what we can tell,” Abby begins, moving to stand beside Clarke, “survivors of The Last War originated, at least in part, from Polis. The medical journals that Raven uncovered indicate that measures were taken to combat the effects of such high levels of radiation.” She releases a breath, and Clarke looks up from scanning the pages of the binder.

“So the black blood—it wasn’t a natural adaptation?”

Abby slowly shakes her head. “Nightblood is the result of a serum which was then injected into the bloodstream allowing humans to encounter and, more importantly, _survive_ large levels of radiation. Think of it as a kind of inoculation.”

“And, it was designed to perpetuate,” Raven adds, pointing an index finger to a passage of text that’s been underlined. “But, I don’t think the scientists responsible for its creation ever intended for it to exist the way it does now.”

“As a … foundation for their guiding set of beliefs?” Clarke hedges.

Raven shakes her head. “Not only that, but just its basic, physical properties. See here?” She looks again to the page in front of them. Further down, several stars and exclamation points have been scribbled into the margin. “Current research findings indicate that further perpetuated characteristics of the substance will continue to lessen over time, mitigating the detrimental fallout of its health risks.”

Clarke digests the information with a subtle frown. “So they knew about the risk of fatalities in those given the serum.” Raven nods, and Clarke exhales. “But they never expected Nightbloods to continue being born over multiple generations?”     

“Yup,” Raven confirms. “They figured once humans adapted, assuming the radiation levels would continue to decrease, the immunization serum in the bloodstream would stop reproducing itself. And check this out.” She discards the current binder and retrieves a second, smaller journal. Flipping through its pages, Raven’s finger lands on another section of text that’s been highlighted. “We think that at least one of the researchers might have been proposing alternatives to just, you know, letting the original population of their study essentially die out from being given the serum.”

“A cure?” Clarke’s eyes bulge at the idea, but her mother is quick to intervene.

“Possibly, but not guaranteed. The information is still lacking, Clarke. And, we haven’t confirmed anything.”

“Okay,” Clarke concedes, trying to stay calm. “But it’s still _something_. What do the journals say?”

“We haven’t exactly figured that out yet,” Raven admits. “Or, not in total, at least. In case you hadn’t noticed,” she waves a hand in front of multiple binders lined against the wall, “what we unearthed is a veritable fuckton of super dense scientific medical jargon, and it’s been slow-going trying to sift through it all.”

“Okay, well, I’m here to help now so that’s at least another pair of eyes. We need to get Lincoln in on this, too. We’ll have to get a message to him in TonDC and ask him to bring Indius here, assuming she’s able to travel. Also, where are we at with examining the samples we’ve already collected? Were you able to find the centrifuge or microscopes?”   

“It’d be easier to just show you, honestly. I can take you down to the lab whenever you’re ready,” Raven shrugs. “You can see it for yourself.”

One of their more notable successes had been Raven’s discovery of an old tech lab, half-buried under rubble but otherwise almost completely in tact. Upon Lexa’s command, the area was cleared and cleaned and now operates as the hub of their sampling research. The lab is a part of the established Polis medical facility but had never before been utilized. Clarke has yet to see it and is practically bouncing with anticipation.

“I’m ready. Let’s go.”

“Wait—who is Indius?” Abby asks.

“Indius is the oldest Natblida we have on record—she’d been experiencing symptoms for a while when we met her, but then she fell ill just outside TonDC. She’s there now with Lincoln and Nyko. We haven’t even been able to retrieve blood samples as of yet, and she was unable to make the final leg to Polis for treatment.”

“But Clarke, we don’t have a treatment,” Abby gently reminds her.

Clarke tucks one of the binders under an arm and answers with certainty. “Yes we do.”

“Those are just theories,” Abby presses. “Most of the content I’ve seen regarding the sustainability of long-term health options for test subjects is speculative at best.”

As usual, Clarke is undeterred by her mother’s pragmatism. “Well then, we run the tests ourselves—we prove the theories and treat actual Nightbloods with whatever models the original researchers have proposed in these journals as potential treatments. If the original substance itself was an inoculation serum, then there has to be a way to, I don’t know, reverse it.”

“I’m totally with you on this crusade—you know that, right?” Raven says. “But, we’re governed by regulations just like everyone else. We can’t just start performing major experiments _on Nightbloods_ of all people without consent.” Raven folds her arms across her chest. “No one is going to sign off on that, Clarke.”

“I’ll talk to Lexa,” Clarke shrugs.

She is far too determined at this point to let her mom’s and Raven’s doubts slow her down. The new information has buoyed her spirits. Whatever they find is going to include a solution—she’s sure of it.    

“Honey, Lexa won’t even agree to be seen for a basic examination,” her mother says.   

“I already spoke with her about that. She’ll be by later today to have tests run on her current symptoms and have initial blood drawn.”

Clarke walks briskly towards the door of the room, pausing to wait for Raven. When she spins on her heel, she’s met with looks of shock and confusion on both her mother’s and Raven’s faces. “Mom, I need you to compile everything you still have of the Ark’s medical supplies that could be of help—case files, journals, instruments, procedural manuals. All of it. If we don’t have the same technology as we once did, then we’re going to have to be inventive. We should also get Nyko more firmly involved. He’s treated the Natblida of TonDC for ages and would be a great resource—you should talk to him. ” She looks to Raven next. “Come on,” she urges, not willing to waste any more time that they don’t have. “You’re going to talk to me about the samples in the lab, right?”

Raven starts walking towards her, shaking her head. “Uh yeah, along with a few other very, fucking specific matters that have recently come to light.”

:::

“How could you not tell me this? Does anyone else know? Oh my god, if you told Wells first, I’m never speaking to either of you ever again.”

“I haven’t told _anyone,_ ” Clarke laughs, flipping another page of the medical journal and scanning its content for anything that looks relevant. “Will you please try and stay focused?”

“You slept with the Commander, Clarke! How can you expect me to focus on _anything_ beyond that incredibly shocking revelation?” Raven spins a lab stool and straddles it backwards so that her elbows are propped on the black tabletop in front of Clarke. “When did this happen? How many times did it happen—holy shit, did you sleep with her again this morning?!”   

“Raven!” Clarke runs her hands down the length of her face with an exasperated laugh.

“Oh my god, you did. Didn’t you?” Clarke pulls her hands away from her face to see Raven shaking her head, looking impressed.

“No! No, we did _not_ have sex this morning.” Just the thought of it—of everything that didn’t happen as well as everything that did—has Clarke’s cheeks burning red.

“Bet you thought about it though,” Raven smirks.

Clarke exhales, returning her attention to the page in front of her. “I’ve been sleeping on the ground in a tent by myself for over seven months—what do you think?”  

Raven cackles and Clarke can’t help the smile that spreads on her lips when Raven drums against the table and says, “Alright, Griffin. Nicely done. Finally sealing the deal with your childhood crush before rushing off to save the world. I’m impressed.”

Clarke looks up sharply with a scowl. “Lexa was not my _childhood crush._ ”

“Uh, yes she fucking was. Even Wells will back me up on this one, dude.”

She can’t help but think of her bizarre conversation earlier that morning while riding to Polis and asks, only half-jokingly, “Have you become friends with Octavia recently?” Raven looks somewhere between confused and offended, and Clarke shakes her head. “Forget it. Okay, explain to me again how you _built_ a centrifuge?”

“I’m a genius.”

“Right,” Clarke concedes, rolling her eyes. “And, beyond that?”

“Beyond that,” Raven shrugs. “It’s just basic physics, really.”

Raven then launches into a dizzying explanation of bioengineering, mechanical theory, and rpms, most of which is lost on Clarke’s sleep-deprived brain. Raven’s excitement is uplifting, though, and Clarke finds herself smiling as she enthusiastically demonstrates the prototype.

“I mean, I’ve essentially just reinvented the wheel. They would have developed this same kind of low-cost, manual tech Before for what Westernized society would have considered _underdeveloped regions_ ,” Raven eventually shrugs. 

“Hey,” Clarke says, grasping her shoulder. “It’s really amazing.”

Raven beams. “It kind of is, isn’t it?”

They’ve been in the lab for over an hour—Raven giving Clarke the full tour, interspersed with asking inappropriate questions about Lexa and making crass innuendos—when another familiar face appears in the doorway. Clarke looks up and a broad smile breaks across her face as she jumps up from her seat.

“You resurface after almost two, full seasons, and I’m no longer at the top of your list for being notified?” Wells critiques, holding his arms out at his sides with palms facing upwards as if to feign offense.

“Hi!” Clarke takes the opportunity to bear hug him, arms wrapping tightly around his neck until he eventually returns her embrace. “I just got back.”

“And yet, I have encountered at least three people who have already spent substantial amounts of time with you,” he grumbles.    

Clarke steps back with a smile at the disgruntled look on Wells’s face— _god_ , she’s missed her friends. “You saw my mom?”  

“I did. And, I’m supposed to tell you that the Commander is here to see you.”

“Oh. Okay.” Clarke hadn’t expected to see her again so soon, particularly for all her defiance. She’s left with an image of Lexa standing alone making awkward small talk with her mother, despite the fact that in all her winters Lexa has probably never once made small talk. “I should get back over there. I’ll be back after I’m done with this, okay?” she says to Raven.

“You mean when you’re done _examining_ the Commander?” Raven says.

They are apparently still fifteen because Clarke’s first instinct is to happily flip Raven her middle finger.

“Wait—what did I miss?” Wells says, eyes darting between them comically.

Clarke is quick to respond. “Nothing.”  

“Ooh! Actually,” Raven says, snapping her fingers a few times and far too gleeful. “You can help us settle an argument.”

“I’m leaving,” Clarke says, moving past Wells into the doorway as quickly as possible.

“Clarke—no!” Raven calls after her. “My victory will be so much less sweet without being able to see the humiliated look on your face!”

:::

Lexa sits on an exam table, hands grasping the edge and long legs dangling off one side, somehow still looking perfectly regal. Her curious gaze follows Clarke around the room as she searches for supplies in the unfamiliar space. The room is small and quiet, light breezes fluttering the white linen that hangs in the windows. Gustus stands outside the closed door, and Clarke has a ridiculous fear that the minute she pricks Lexa’s skin with a needle he’ll come barging into the room and have her apprehended.

She’s been exceptionally quiet, but Lexa must sense her nerves because as Clarke approaches the table she says, “Am I not the one who is about to lose blood?”

“Sorry,” Clarke smiles. “It’s just weird to be doing this in such a different environment.”

The medical facility is kept clean and sterile, impressively preserved from Before. The drawers and cabinets all feel entirely foreign. While she and Lincoln had taken the necessary precautions while extracting their samples, Clarke is used to an open-air tent and her portable medics kit. The results will be the same here, but the procedure and Clarke’s tools are a bit different. Not to mention, taking samples from this Nightblood in particular feels like a much heavier task. She struggles not to seem unsure or flustered.

“Should we wait until a fisa tent is made available to make you more comfortable?”

Clarke leans down to pull a manual lever on the exam table which controls its incline, adjusting it so that Lexa can lean back while still in a sitting position. The table clicks into place. “Nice try, but I know you’re just stalling.”

“I would prefer that the person responsible for extracting blood from my veins be at their most comfortable, Clarke.”

“I’m good,” Clarke smiles, more genuinely this time. “Promise.” She rests a hand onto Lexa’s knee and sighs. “If you want to sit back, we can get this over with.”

Lexa exhales, nodding once. She swings her legs onto the table, the heels of her boots hitting the padded metal surface with a dull thud. Clarke elevates Lexa’s arm closest to her, turning it gently from left to right while examining the veins along her inner elbow. She’s done the procedure a hundred times and probably could have been a certified phlebotomist in another life, but the idea of puncturing Lexa’s skin has her second-guessing what has since become instinct.

She reaches for the tourniquet and then Lexa says, “This is how we met.”

Always surprised by Lexa’s rare sentimentality, Clarke looks up with an unexpected smile to see her expression something fond and reflective. Young and fearless, both incredibly driven to prove themselves—fifteen seems like lifetimes ago, though Clarke remembers that first meeting vividly.

“You were a lot grumpier back then.”

This only causes Lexa to smile, and it relaxes every nerve right down to Clarke’s fingertips as she works to secure the tourniquet around Lexa’s arm. She’s dressed in a dark sleeveless shirt that definitely had Clarke more than a little distracted by all the inked skin on display while trying to gather supplies.

“Having one’s face and abdomen bludgeoned during a sparring match will have that effect.”

“I think your ego was probably bruised worse than your face.” Clarke tightens the tourniquet, palpating the skin along Lexa’s arm to coax the veins to the surface. “I imagine you’ve never enjoyed conceding a loss, and you’ve always _hated_ being told what to do.”

“It is not always easy …  accepting one’s weaknesses. Particularly when being treated by a beautiful fisa.”

Clarke looks up from running an alcohol swab across Lexa’s skin with a pointed glare and cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “I’m about to puncture you with a needle—do you really need to be so charming right now? It’s very distracting.”

“I will keep my observations to myself,” Lexa grins.

“Thank you.” Returning to her work, Clarke fights the smile from her own lips by briefly pressing them together. She anchors the basilic vein, readies the needle just over the skin’s surface, and takes another breath. “Little pinch,” she says just as the needle presses down and a flash of black blood enters the catheter.

She removes the first collection tube after a moment, setting it aside and reaching for another. Lexa observes the process quietly, eyes intent on her blood filling the vials. Clarke takes three tubes of blood before removing the needle, pressing down on the puncture site with a small, sterile cloth when she’s done.

“That is all?” Lexa asks, still eyeing the vials of her blood that sit on a nearby tray.

“Yep—now we’ll take them down to the lab where Raven has created a system of examining and categorizing the blood’s individual components. I’d still like to ask you some questions about your headaches and run a few, quick tests on your vision—but yeah, the hard part is done.”

“The procedure was not at all difficult, Clarke.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, positioning Lexa’s arm so that the cloth is held in place by the crux of her elbow. “And yet, you adamantly refused for so long.”

“I have always hated being told what to do,” Lexa parrots, keeping her arm in the position Clarke had moved it.

Clarke enjoys a self-satisfied smirk. “Except by me, apparently.”

Lexa smiles in return, nodding so subtly that had Clarke not been watching her so closely, she might have missed it. “You are quite often the exception.”   

:::

Just before sundown, when Clarke has finally left the lab with tired eyes and an aching head from so much dense reading, she is intercepted outside the main stairwell of Polis Tower. Her intention had been to find Lexa, or at the very least, someone who might know her whereabouts.

“Heda has asked that I direct you to her upon your return to the Tower.”

Sarak is taller than Lexa by at least four inches, slim but obviously muscular in her light, leather armor. Clarke is forced to crane her neck a bit to meet her eye, a sharp panic already stabbing her chest. “Is she okay?”

_How many times will she have to ask? How many times will the answer put her at ease?_

“She is well, Clarke. I will take you to her.”

“She’s not here?” Clarke asks after a deep breath, footsteps following Sarak’s as she has already begun to move towards a discreet, side entrance of the Tower’s main floor.

“We must ride outside the city walls for a short distance,” Sarak says as they exit into the fading sunlight of a humid, summer night. Two horses of moderate height stand waiting for them beside the Tower’s exterior stone wall. “Yu laik skilled gapa hosa, yes?”

Clarke expels a short laugh. “I wouldn’t go that far. I can ride without falling off, if that’s what you mean by _skilled._ ”  

Sarak smiles, running a hand down the sloped nose of a grey-and-white patchwork horse. “She is a very patient and understanding gapa. I trust you will be well-matched.”

They wind their way through narrow, less-traveled streets of Polis in relative silence. Clarke and her horse trail behind Sarak as they leave the bustling city center behind. When they have reached the northern wall of the city, Sarak wordlessly dismounts and approaches a nondescript section of the wall. The defensive structure surrounding the city has been constructed from varying, abstract materials. Clarke thinks of it more like an amalgamation of found objects that has been reinforced over time into something cohesive and secure. Sarak speaks quick and low into a small opening between sheets of steel, and Clarke nearly gapes to see a sizable panel of the wall slide open a moment later. If she didn’t already get the sense that she’s participating in some clandestine activity, she is now sure of it.  

“Come, Clarke,” Sarak encourages as she jumps back onto her horse. “It is not far now.”

As Clarke passes through the gap in the wall, she turns to see three or four of Heda’s guard reseal the opening and take up post outside, no doubt as they had been before.

“Where are we going exactly?” she eventually asks, apprehension getting the better of her even though she has never believed Sarak to be anything other than profoundly trustworthy and loyal.

“Heda enjoys her privacy.”

Clarke rolls her eyes spectacularly, intent on mocking Lexa for being so dramatic at her earliest convenience. Sarak no doubt has her orders of confidentiality and doesn’t deserve Clarke’s scorn for all the cloak-and-dagger machinations. She rides quietly instead of pressing for more answers, enjoying the grounds outside the city which are completely new to her—sparse gatherings of trees interspersed with lush, green fields and acres of summer flowers in bloom. This part of Polis is far less settled than the southern border, and Clarke starts to get the sense that seclusion is probably the main objective on this little voyage.

Inside a small but dense forest of towering, fragrant pines sits a quaint house built from stone and mortar with a thatched roof and a small wooden porch along one side. It’s been constructed in a style that Clarke recognizes from pictures of Before, and she wonders if it’s actually been standing in this spot for hundreds of years. She dismounts her horse without waiting for further instruction, anxious to see Lexa and demand an explanation for all the secrecy. The front door has been left ajar, and Clarke pushes her way through into a small but open room, lit dimly with candles on every available surface.

Lexa enters from a separate room, dressed in the same sleeveless shirt and dark pants from earlier in the day. Her features immediately brighten at seeing Clarke, lips curving in that shy, subtle way that completely belies her strength and status. Clarke’s stomach bottoms out at the sight of her, and she quickly disregards plans that involve prolonged talking of any kind.

“Hi.” Lexa swallows, pausing just inside the main room and leaving at least three or four paces between them. Clarke drops her bag to the floor and moves towards her with renewed purpose. “I hope that you—”

It’s a soft collision that nevertheless has Lexa taking a small step backwards to keep her balance while Clarke presses into her, hands curling around the back of her neck. There is no hesitation this time, no uncertainty; Lexa responds with an urgency that has Clarke’s pulse racing.

“I missed you,” Clarke says between breaths. “I thought about you every day. All the time.” It’s everything she hasn’t said, all the admissions she’s kept from herself so as not to lose focus on her work. They may never have time for everything, but Clarke will make time for honesty. “I didn’t know if you were okay, I just—” The force of Lexa’s kiss chokes off her fears, and Clarke is grateful for it.  

Lexa’s forehead comes to rest against Clarke’s as their lips again separate by fractions. “I’ve missed you a great deal.” She reaches for one of Clarke’s hands with shaky breaths, taking one step back and then another.

She’s leading them towards the room from which she’d entered moments ago, eyes never leaving Clarke’s as she carefully moves them through the open doorway. Clarke follows her into a smaller room that’s been littered with even more candles, and what little air she’d had left in her lungs leaves with a quick exhale. It’s a beautiful space. The furniture has been carefully handcrafted, the bed dressed in some of the finest fabrics Clarke has ever seen. The open windows allow a soft, warm breeze that carries on it the smell of sweet flowers from the nearby fields. Lexa stops just a foot or so from the bed, watching as Clarke’s eyes continue to roam.

“What’s all this?”

Lexa lifts one shoulder in the slightest shrug and says very softly, “Something nice.”

She watches for Clarke’s reaction with such open vulnerability—these wide, searching eyes that catch all the dancing firelight surrounding them. Clarke feels a tightness in her chest that might combust. She steps in, closing the distance between them by reaching up to slide her hand around Lexa’s neck as their lips meet. Slower this time but with mounting intensity. Her body will take over where words fail her. Clarke wants everything all at once—Lexa’s mouth and hands, her smooth skin and impossibly strong arms. Their clothes are made of simple fabrics, held together with small ties and buttons which they both struggle with in all their distracted urgency.

When Clarke’s bare skin eventually slides against the linens, she wants to appreciate the luxury of its fine quality, smooth and silken. But, Lexa is soon crawling naked on top of her, and Clarke’s entire world has narrowed to the various points of contact where Lexa’s skin is touching her own. She has slotted their legs together, pressing into her with a jutting hip, and Clarke gasps. Lexa does it again, holding her weight on her hands as she watches for Clarke’s reaction.

“Lexa, _fuck_.” Clarke’s hips begin to move, chasing the contact as she pulls against Lexa’s shoulders and neck. “Come here. Please.”

The desperate ask has Lexa falling against her, and Clarke’s moans are swallowed by Lexa’s mouth as their tongues meet and the pressure of Lexa’s hip is replaced by her hand. She has missed the shape of Lexa’s mouth against hers, the intuition of her fingers as they press into her. She’ll be quickly undone at this rate for how long she’s been waiting to be with Lexa again like this.

“Clarke,” Lexa says, and only then does she realize her eyes have been closed, clenched shut in mounting pleasure.

For all their desperation, there’s a tenderness to the way Lexa watches her, the way she finally tips her over the edge and lets her cry out as the orgasm begins to undulate across her entire body. Lexa watches her unravel in wonder, and Clarke can’t look away. Her breath stutters as Lexa slowly removes her fingers, but she does not otherwise shift from where her body covers Clarke’s.

Regaining her breath, Clarke says, “Tell me we don’t have to go back into the city tonight.”

“I will return in the morning,” Lexa tells her, fingers idly tucking damp strands of hair behind her ear.  The room is hot and the breeze constant but warm. Their skin sticks from sweat and heat, but Clarke can’t bring herself to care. “You may stay here as long as you like.”

Clarke smiles and squeezes Lexa’s hip bone. “Don’t tempt me.”

“If I were able, I would stay here with you for a very long time.”

Clarke cranes her neck to reach Lexa’s mouth and kisses her sweetly before letting her head fall back into the pillow. “No, you wouldn’t. You care too much for the Kyongedon’s collective safety—you would never abandon the needs of your people for your own selfish reasons.” Lexa’s sad smile is that of concession. “And, neither could I. My work as a healer—in trying to save the Nightbloods in particular—is something I could never walk away from.”

“It is something that I have always admired about you. Your dedication, your persistence.”

“Me too.” Clarke’s voice shakes, heart hammering at all the words threatening to spill out of her if Lexa keeps looking at her so openly. Their secrets are all but shared—the things expressed but left unsaid that now hang in the scant space between them.   

Lexa swallows, watching her for several, long beats of silence. “I wish I could be selfish with you more often, Clarke.”

“I know.” Clarke runs her hands up the length of Lexa’s spine and back down. “We have until the sun comes up to ignore our responsibilities. Let’s not think about what happens beyond that, okay?”

Lexa nods once, and Clarke kisses her again.

:::

“Do you plan to feed me at some point?” Clarke asks, curled around Lexa’s frame as she drifts in and out of a hazy, half-sleep. They’d been active for over an hour, always chasing after the thrill of roaming hands and eager mouths. But now, they enjoy a small interlude to lie quietly together.

She kisses the space between Lexa’s shoulder blades and can feel the vibrations against her lips when Lexa hums. “My intentions were to prepare a meal upon your arrival, but it seemed you had … alternative plans.”

“I didn’t hear you complaining.” Clarke presses the words into Lexa’s skin.

Lexa finds her hand where it rests along her stomach and slides their fingers together. “I liked your agenda much better than mine.”

Clarke laughs into Lexa’s neck, burying three or four kisses behind her ear. “Well, my plan apparently lacked forethought because now I’m starving.”

She adjusts her limbs as Lexa turns to face her, legs sliding together and immediately distracting Clarke from her hunger pangs. “I will gladly cook for you.”

“Is there food here?”

“Yes. I had been gathering with Ryder before your arrival.”

Clarke’s eyes widen. “Does Ryder know I’m here too?”

“My personal guard remain as discreet as they are perceptive,” Lexa smiles. “Ryder and Sarak keep utmost confidentiality on various matters, my personal life included.”

“Yeah,” Clarke says through an exhale. “Sarak wouldn’t even tell me where we were going. Where are we exactly anyway?”

Lexa briefly purses her lips. “My residence in Polis Tower can be … stifling at times. Heda’s presence is unavoidably obtrusive in almost any setting, but particularly while I am at the Tower. There have always been many residences afforded to Heda in various locations throughout Polis. This one has always been my favorite.”

“So, you lure unsuspecting women here when you want to hide out?” Clarke baits, feeling a quick surge of anxiety as she waits for Lexa’s response.

She watches her lips slide into a crooked smirk, immediately recognizing Clarke’s comment for what it is. “I think you know that I have never before hid away with anyone else, Clarke.”  

Clarke breathes out with a satisfied smile to have Lexa confirm it out loud. Somehow, she did already know. Even if they have never put any of this into words—in so many ways, there has never been anyone else. She closes the space between them and finds Lexa’s soft lips. The food, Clarke decides, can wait.

:::

 


	2. The Observer Effect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She has begun to miss Clarke during much shorter periods of time. She misses her compulsive interruptions. She misses her simple greetings. She misses her mischievous grins and the texture of her hair at the base of her neck. Lexa misses her, and they have not been separated for more than a handful of hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Observer Effect: even passive observation of phenomena can change the measured result.

_**Autumn**_  

Waking up with Clarke is an experience unto itself.

Lexa finds that she does not adjust to the sensation of another warm body in her bed—let alone the fact that it belongs to Clarke—no matter the increasing regularity. She often falls asleep wrapped in the familiar weight of limbs and softly grazing touches, only to wake with the expectation that Clarke will be gone.

“Hi.” This, above all else, she will never regulate to properly.

Her mouth curls up at the corners as Clarke’s first word of the morning scratches against the pillow where they lie facing. Clarke’s voice is capable of many things: fueling her anger or encouraging a rare bout of laughter. It has always been particularly adept at igniting her frustrations. In the mornings, Clarke’s simple greeting crawls delicately up Lexa’s spine, tingling warm and pleasant at the base of her neck. Lexa thinks that to continue waking in this way, she could want for little else.  

“How did you sleep?”

Clarke’s delicate smile widens into something more pronounced as her eyes dance across Lexa’s face. “Really good. You?”

Lexa hums in agreement, working to curb her own smile when Clarke’s gaze lingers on her mouth. They lie in the stillness of early morning and try not to rustle the linens or speak more than necessary. This short breath of quiet is sacred. Their time alone together typically ends as soon as one of them begins to stir—something they are both learning to prolong with each shared morning.

Clarke has been back in Polis for less than a week, and already Lexa has seen more of her in five days than she has over the span of five years. After their first night together, Lexa had asked to see Clarke for dinner, which had then extended into a shared breakfast as well. The following night, Clarke boldly found her way back to Lexa’s room without invitation, brushing past Sarak with a casual wave and pinning Lexa with a look of expectancy that had her pulse racing. By the third night, Lexa was seeking out Clarke in the guest quarters, unable to resist the proximity of a girl who has always felt just beyond her grasp.

It is all still quite surreal—Clarke’s kind but penetrating blue eyes, her wild, bright blonde hair splayed across the pillow, and the simple graze of her hand along Lexa’s stomach. Already she knows that she is growing accustomed to Clarke’s continued presence. She can feel herself swaying into a tempting pattern of regular contact and quietly intimate talks.

Still, her mind struggles to accept that which she has never had. She does not ask how long Clarke will stay in Polis, unable to hear again that she plans to leave.

“Always thinking,” Clarke says like a gentle scold, running the pad of her thumb between Lexa’s eyebrows as if to erase the worry lines that have begun to form there.  

“My day will be very long,” she eventually answers, not yet willing to bring her anxious musings into their peaceful morning.

Clarke sighs, unconvinced. “Fine. Don’t tell me.” Rolling over onto her back, she stretches her arms far above her head.

It is more than a little distracting, the way Clarke arches her back and releases soft groans as her muscles pull taut. Lexa swallows as her eyes roam where the linens have fallen away. Even lying naked beside her, Lexa fights against her own uncertainties when it comes to Clarke.

When to touch. When to talk. When to ask for more.

“What will you do with your day?”

“Pretty big day for me, too.” Clarke turns her head to meet Lexa’s gaze and has never looked more lovely. “Lincoln is finally bringing Indius to the city.”

“She is well?”

It is now Clarke’s face that is shadowed in concern. “Enough to travel, I guess. Lincoln and Nyko would never allow her to leave TonDC if they thought it would put her health further at risk.”

“I would like to meet her. When she is able.”

“That’s good,” Clarke smiles, and Lexa is glad to have eased the worry from her face. “Because I sort of already promised to introduce you.”

“I would have her stay within the Tower as my guest. Rooms can be prepared for Lincoln and Nyko as well, if they like.”

Clarke’s hand again brushes against the skin of Lexa’s abdomen and her stomach tenses. “Thanks.”

“Of course.”

Clarke rolls her eyes as a passing thought flits across her face, fingers still trailing idly across Lexa’s skin beneath the soft linens. “Although Lincoln will probably just find lodging wherever _Octavia_ is sleeping.”

“Our time here is limited, Clarke. Do you honestly wish to discuss Octavia’s passing attractions at the moment?” Lexa taunts, trapping Clarke’s wandering hand with her own as it dips below her navel. They had returned to the secluded location upon Lexa’s suggestion after a brief but awkward encounter with a delegate from Louwoda Kliron, confused at discovering Heda near the guest quarters at an unexpected hour the morning prior. 

“No, not particularly,” Clarke laughs, eyes sparkling and voice lowering even as she moves closer and weaves their fingers together against Lexa’s hip.

Lexa suddenly has her own ideas—emboldened by Clarke’s steady grip and inviting gaze. She presses back against Clarke’s initial advances, easily overtaking her atop the mattress and pinning their joined hands above Clarke’s head. The morning breeze is light and cool as it drifts through the open cottage windows, and she enjoys the way Clarke’s eyes drag across her bare skin. 

She kisses Clarke slowly and revels in the press of so much sleep-warm skin. It is a languid reacquaintance of their time together before sunrise—before exhaustion overpowered desire and they succumbed to a pleasantly tangled, sated sleep.

“Hi,” she breathes against Clarke’s parted lips.

Clarke’s thumb presses into her hip bone where she grips Lexa’s waist. Bright blue eyes flutter from her mouth to meet her gaze and back again as Clarke smiles. “Hi, again.”

Each of their encounters continue to stretch longer than the one preceding it, taking more time with each other than either has to give. They must both recognize other demands and obligations. Being with Clarke has always felt indulgent, something desperately impermanent that threatens to expire as quickly as it begins. This morning is no different.

Clarke seems to read her thoughts as she asks, “Do you have to get back?”

_Yes. Always. My time will never be my own._

Instead, Lexa smiles, her voice not quite above a whisper as she says, “Not yet.”  

:::

“And now? Any pain?”

Clarke sits facing her on a short, wooden bench, close but not touching. She is directing Lexa to follow the movement of a small, lit candle with her eyes. This too, has become a routine to which Lexa has adjusted. Clarke has performed these small, unobtrusive checks on Lexa’s health each morning since her return. It did not take long for Lexa to concede that any opposition to Clarke’s wishes would be futile.

“Nothing,” she answers. “The aching behind my eyes has not returned for several days.”

“I must be good for your health,” Clarke says, smirking as she extinguishes the flame with a short puff of air and replaces the candle to a nearby surface.

Lexa raises an eyebrow, even as she detects a distinct, nervous flutter in her chest. “Perhaps your continued presence in Polis should be mandated for the sake of Heda’s well-being.”

Clarke only smiles kindly at the empty threat, perhaps recognizing it as Lexa’s thinly-veiled desire for her to stay. “Lucky for you, we’re at the point in our research that requires Raven’s and my mom’s expertise. Which means staying in the city, at least for now.”

She then places her hands onto Lexa’s knees where they sit facing at a small breakfast table. Such an easy, thoughtless gesture that nevertheless causes Lexa’s heart to trip again. Clarke’s hands apply a gentle pressure as she says, “Besides, I’m not going anywhere until I know that you’re okay.”

A surge of relief washes over her, and Lexa allows herself to lean into Clarke’s space and indulge in the soft press of her lips. She then braces herself for an honest admission, taking a deep breath and moistening her lips. “I would like to know more. About your findings on Natblida. I know that there are many things we have not yet discussed.”

Clarke nods, looking relieved herself. “There’s a lot I need to tell you. I just … wasn’t sure you were ready to hear it.”

Lexa smiles humorlessly. She thinks of death and war among her people. Constant reports of young lives lost to unexplained illness and perpetual hardships that the Kyongedon must endure. “Heda is often required to receive information for which she is unprepared.”

“Yeah,” Clarke sighs, her hands still a warm pressure just above Lexa's kneecaps. “But, it’s _Lexa_ that I worry about.”

It is not worth arguing that one identity does not exist without the other. Clarke understands Lexa’s duality even if she often chooses to ignore it. Lexa instead leans into her touch yet again, watching Clarke’s eyes fall closed as their lips meet. They’ve been sharing baked goods that Lexa brought from her favorite stall in the market, and Clarke tastes like sweet figs and honey.

:::

At the cottage doorway, they linger still. Dressed and fed but still grasping to preserve this seclusion, Lexa’s hands rest on Clarke’s waist where she is leant against the wooden door frame. Clarke pulls her closer with hands hung loosely around her neck, and Lexa is easily lost in the warmth of another kiss. The morning mist evaporates around them as early sunlight spills over the trees. They are not so far outside the city walls that Lexa must hurry her departure in order to maintain her schedule, but their time is nevertheless vanishing as the day breaks across the sky.

A quiet rustling has Lexa pulling back—not alarmed but cautiously scanning the near distance for what she suspects will be one of her guards coming to return their horses. What she does not expect is to see Anya’s face as she steps through a grove of trees with a measurable prey slung across her shoulders.

Anya has always moved about the forests noiselessly. Lexa knows her quiet brush against the surrounding foliage to be intentional—a clear announcement of her presence. She stops a good distance away from the cottage door without further encroaching on Lexa’s rather intimate moment, their eyes meeting in a subtle challenge of wills. Lexa does not move from where her hands still rest along Clarke’s waist, defying her instincts to pull back. There is no sense in hiding from Anya that which she has already long suspected.

Clarke eventually follows her gaze, hands slipping from her neck as she clears her throat. “Anya. Hei.”

“Sarak waits for you beyond the fields, Clarke. She will escort you to the main gates.” Though she speaks to Clarke, Anya’s eyes remain on Lexa.

“Oh. Um, okay. Thanks.”

Lexa finally looks away from where Anya stands, her hands reaching for Clarke’s as they drop from her waist. “Perhaps later, if you—”

“I’ll come find you,” Clarke interjects with a smile, quickly squeezing Lexa’s fingers before brushing a kiss across the corner of her mouth. “Thanks for breakfast.” She nods her head ever-so-slightly in Anya’s direction and lowers her voice. “Good luck with that.”  

Fighting a grin, Lexa pinches her lips together. “Mochof.”

Clarke steps off the front entry and crosses the short distance towards Anya while Lexa observes her retreating form from the doorway. She says something indecipherable to Anya as she passes, to which Anya only nods. When her attention returns to the cottage, Lexa sighs and finally steps outside fully, closing the door behind her.

“Monin homplei?” Lexa prompts as Anya approaches.

“It is apparently Heda who desired a morning hunt.” She stops in front of Lexa, raising an inquisitive brow. “Or, so I was told by Aasma.”

They stand facing in a quiet wood, buzzing insects and forest creatures waking around them as the sun continues to climb. They are not Commander and General in this moment, indicative by their relaxed postures and the concern Lexa can see darkening Anya’s otherwise fixed expression. She is as close to Lexa as anyone can be—not merely an extension of her existence but vital to her entire identity. A great portion of who Lexa is today was determined entirely by Anya's careful guidance. Lexa has never had family to speak of; she has only ever had Anya.

“I did not wish to disclose every detail of my personal affairs to the entire staff of Polis Tower. Is that so surprising?”

“No. Heda is due her privacy. Except you have no kill to speak of,” Anya responds, shrugging the young deer off her shoulders to the ground. “Now you do.”

Lexa looks down to the animal laid between them. Though they have not yet spoken of Anya’s role in brazenly fetching Clarke from across the western territories, Lexa understands this gesture for what it is: a peace offering. Anya will not apologize for her actions, and Lexa will never demand penance. This will be the extent of their exchange on the subject. She looks up again to meet Anya’s steady gaze.

“Chof.”

“Do not thank me. You’re the one who will carry it home.”

Anya turns to walk away without waiting for Lexa to respond, already several paces away when Lexa says, “Did you not bring gapas?”

“No,” Anya says without turning around. “Oso strech au.”

Lexa exhales in deliberation, rolling out the tension in her jaw before reaching down to easily slide the deer onto her shoulders. Travelling from the cottage back to the city center will take at least twice as long on foot. Furthermore, given her stubborn refusal to rush through a peaceful morning of slow kisses and soft touches with Clarke, Lexa now risks delaying her entire schedule. Perhaps this had been Anya’s intention all along—her perpetual instincts to teach and train never far from reach, even as Lexa nears her third year as Heda.

She suddenly feels every bit the dutiful, subordinate Second to her demanding First, though they have not filled these roles in many seasons. She catches up to Anya in a few, short jogs, somewhat out of breath from the exertion of moving briskly while carrying an extra weight.

“Am I not the one who should be punishing you?” Lexa asks, gesturing to the heavy load across her shoulders as they make their way out of the woods side-by-side.

“If I knew you were well enough to carry on a succession of trysts with the Skai fisa, I would not have sent for her so urgently.”

Clarke is hardly a _tryst,_ but Lexa does not think it is a distinction worth making at the moment. She shifts the weight of the deer along her back as they step over fallen trees and onto a well-worn path that leads to Polis.

“You have repeatedly branded her a distraction since we were yongon. What did you think might happen in bringing her here?”

“I thought you might prove me wrong.”

“Peace grows within our people. Azgeda is not currently a threat. Trade continues to flourish among the clans.” Lexa sighs. “I have grown tired of denying myself time spent with Clarke.” Catching Anya’s expression of mild surprise at her candor, she then smirks, “My desire to constantly disprove your assumptions notwithstanding.”

Anya watches her sidelong, her mouth a sloped line that poorly resists amusement. “Not an ordinary tryst then.”

The silence between them stretches as Lexa looks away towards the path before them. She thinks of Clarke in the fisa ward of TonDC—so determined, so earnest, so blindly headstrong. She thinks of heated exchanges fueled by fury and frustration. Soft morning touches, long stretches of quiet, and bright smiles. She thinks of possibility.

“No,” she finally says. “Clarke has never been ordinary.”

“It pains me to say that Octavia was right.” Anya turns her head with a narrowed, calculating gaze. “It is much worse between you two than I thought.”

Lexa rolls her eyes, feeling like a much younger version of herself under Anya’s playful derision. “It has been a … pleasant reacquaintance. Despite the fact that it cannot last.”

“You have worked hard. You have been vigilant and determined in your pursuits of diplomacy and stability for your people. Even Heda is granted some measure of leisure on occasion.”

“Heda is not merely limited by a demanding agenda.” Lexa exhales heavily, already feeling her mood deflating as reality impedes on her idyllic hideaway with Clarke. “My blood assures that I remain constantly aware of my time as it rapidly diminishes.”

“But, Clarke wishes to help Natblida.”

Lexa squints against a rising sun. “She wishes to change them.”

“To cure them,” Anya counters.

“To cure Natblida is to change them.”

Clarke has said nothing explicitly. Lexa is not even sure how much progress she has made in terms of treatment, but something within her inherently knows this to be true:

If Clarke is to stem the weakness in black blood, regardless of the treatment, some aspect of Natblida identity will be irreversibly changed.

Anya pauses and then says, “You remain uncertain.”

“Yes.”

“Even despite your feelings about Clarke?”

 __ “I respect Clarke’s work,” Lexa clarifies. “And, I believe that her intentions have always been good. Outside of … everything else, she is an honorable fisa.”

“And yet, you withhold your support.”

Lexa sighs as the upper ledge of the northern wall comes into view. “I have lived my entire life—as do all Natblida—with certain understandings about mortality. Jus-de na buk au omon trei. The blood’s weakness is integral to our foundational teachings, to our very existence. If Clarke is successful in finding a cure, it will not only be the span of Natblida lives that will be changed. It will change everything.”    

The succeeding moments are filled with chirping birds and the movement of wind as it touches tree leaves and bends the field grass. The warm season is fading, but the sun maintains its heat on clear days such as this. Before long, Lexa can feel the sweat gathering at her neck and across her brow.

She and Anya walk in a mutual, contemplative silence for several paces before Anya asks, “Have you spoken about this with Ada?”

“Very briefly.”

“Perhaps another conversation is in order.”

Lexa nods. “Yes. Clarke has agreed to share additional information about their findings and the cure they hope to find. Once we have spoken, I will consult with Ada as well.”

“Is that not what you have spent the past four days doing? _Talking?_ ”

“Shof op,” Lexa nearly laughs, hating the way her cheeks begin to burn at Anya’s taunting.

“Might I suggest choosing an environment more conducive to the task of discussion?”

“Clarke and I are capable of talking at great lengths.” Lexa looks over at her mentor, raising an eyebrow challengingly. “Among other things.”

Anya wordlessly palms the side of Lexa’s head, shoving her off-kilter until she stumbles off the path to keep her balance. The rude, childish gesture makes Lexa want to laugh again. Once they are behind the walls of central Polis, this easy, shared dynamic ends. Lexa will resume the dogged temperament that has for so long defined Heda’s strength and stature. Anya will retain nothing but respect and deference to her Commander, never daring a show of insubordination in the eyes of others. When Lexa again finds her footing along the pathway, Anya has paused to watch her with a reflective smirk.

She motions for the kill of her hunt. “Ron ai trilipa op.”

Lexa gladly shrugs the deer from her shoulders, handing it to Anya by its bound hooves. The mild breeze brushes over her now exposed neck as she rolls out her shoulders, sighing in relief at having unloaded the burdensome weight.

“My reasons for bringing Clarke here were selfish,” Anya says without preamble as she wraps the limp carcass around her shoulders.

It is a conversation that has been brimming for days, though Lexa never expected it would actually come to pass. She waits for Anya to meet her eye. “Sha. Ai get in.”

“I swore my life to protect yours, Lexa. Long before you became Heda.”

Lexa can manage only a stiff nod, swallowing roughly. “I know.”

To speak anything else would be to show more emotion than which she and Anya have ever expressed. Lexa instead grinds her jaw to keep any further sentiments at bay while tears burn at the corners of her eyes. Anya begins walking again, indicating an abrupt end to their discussion, perhaps to avoid the threat of her own emotions. They approach a side entrance to the wall moments later under all the pretense of a successful morning homplei as stoic Commander and her reticent General. Lexa keeps her face impassive as they are greeted by members of her guard who offer congratulations for the good fortune of fresh meat. She passes through the gate into the quiet streets of Polis with Anya trailing behind her out of respect, the brevity of shared affection between them lost to the morning breezes outside the wall.

:::

Surrounded by military personnel, her strategic advisors, the Elders, and a few others, Lexa sits upon her throne. Though she detests its bony structure for long periods of time, it has been just shy of four hours that she has been within the throne room. She cannot wait to be rid of her sedentary posture, aching to stretch her legs with a brisk walk as soon as possible. To conclude their discussions without any further exhaustive rhetoric would be exceptionally fortunate.

“Azgeda remain compliant. We have not witnessed a violation of our treaty in at least three seasons, Heda,” Indra reports.

Lexa does not sigh as the meeting drags on without resolution, though she is severely tempted if not for years of practiced resilience to disappointment.

Hands steepled beneath her chin and eyes watching as shafts of late afternoon sunlight shift across the room, Lexa absorbs the information. “Compliant and yet unwilling to accept an invitation into the Coalition.”

“Queen Ontari’s closest advisors remain skeptical of its implications,” Marcus provides. “We suspect they fear that the Queen risks losing her power under your command.”

“And the Queen herself?” Lexa asks.

“She speaks only through her designated mouthpieces,” Marcus sighs. “Her true intentions may never be known unless we are granted a direct audience.”

Lexa’s gaze drifts from face to face—some of the brightest, most intellectual minds of the known civilizations sit at her disposal. The Elders will suggest patience in handling Azgeda. Indra will petition for a more forceful approach. Marcus consistently relies on diplomacy, and behind him sits Wells Jaha. Lexa pauses to consider him for a moment longer than the rest. His face is calm but contemplative, a kindly determined scholar in training and someone she has known since childhood, even if they have never properly spoken. Something about him strikes her, and Lexa finally speaks, breaking the relative quiet in the room as an idea still forms.  

“Sadgeda fou will commence at the new moon. For the first time, we celebrate this tradition as a unified Kyongedon. I propose a reorganization of the events. Broader competitions to be held here within the capital instead of the individual, localized competitions of the past.” Low mumblings scatter about the room as Lexa’s plans to reshape the bi-annual tradition are shared. “Wells kom Skaikru.”

Where he had been mildly attentive seconds ago, Wells snaps into focus as his name is called. “Yes, Heda.”

“You will travel to the North, accompanied by Marcus and Indra.” Marcus is hardly capable of hiding his shock, but Indra merely grinds her jaw. “Azgeda will be granted entrance to compete in Sadgeda fou despite their current refusal of the Coalition.” More mumblings of uncertainty erupt, but Lexa pushes onward. “I wish for Queen Ontari to be my guest at this honored event, and you will be the one to extend my invitation to her directly.”   

If he is surprised at the request, Wells’s face shows no sign of it. “Of course, Heda. It would be an honor.”

Though he has studied within Polis’ accelerated scholar program for many seasons, the young Skaikru has never before reported to Lexa directly. Nevertheless, Wells has shown an intuition for diplomacy, and Lexa has taken notice. Ada also speaks of him often, and though she would deny it, Lexa can see that she favors him above many other apprentices who study under the Polis Elders’ tutelage.

“Indra, Marcus, I expect you will begin planning immediately in order to carry out this matter as quickly as possible.”

“Sha, Heda,” Indra answers stiffly.

“Of course, Commander,” Marcus quickly echoes.

“That will be all,” Lexa announces, finally standing from her throne and rounding the monstrosity towards the balcony in a gesture of dismissal.

She exits the room with a cleansing breath as the cooler air at this height refreshes her face. Rarely left alone for long stretches of solitude, Lexa soaks in the quiet of her private balcony that overlooks a vast, sprawling city. She can hear the distant chatter of the markets as a sun-streaked sky fades to dusk. She looks to the wall that winds around the city center and the trees which lie beyond it. She can see the red brick of the nearby medical facility, which sits under the shadow of the Tower. As her mind relaxes in the open air, she thinks of going to find Clarke now that her meetings have finally concluded.  

A quiet clearing of the throat has Lexa turning her head to look over her shoulder where Wells stands unobtrusively at the balcony doors. “I’m sorry for intruding, Heda.”

“Your apologies are unnecessary,” Lexa tells him, angling her body in his direction while her hands remain comfortably clasped behind her back.

Wells breathes out, relaxing his tense posture by small fractions. “I wanted to express my thanks for the inclusion on this mission to the North.”

“You have not yet been exposed to the rigorous demands of travel under General Indra’s command,” Lexa almost smirks. “You may wish to delay your gratitude.”

Wells smiles easily. He seems to relax even further while still stood respectfully in his Commander’s company. “I’ll be ready for any challenges.” He appears to deliberate additional commentary, though Lexa can clearly see the uncertainties etched into his brow.

 __ “If you have further questions, I would direct you to Marcus,” she offers, not unkindly.

“Yes, I’ll consult with him right away. Thank you again for the opportunity.”

In another world, they might have been childhood friends—raised in the same village with similar interests and dispositions. Rather rule-governed and drawn to the structured challenges that education provides. Cerebral and philosophical. Problem-solvers. Forward-thinkers. These ancient epithets from Before that were once used to describe those who would rise to the top. As younger children, she and Wells might have had broad discussions about their common views of the world as two, diligent students of TonDC’s demanding educational system.

As it stands, Lexa’s ranking within their pre-established hierarchy determined much of her life before it began—including her companions and confidantes. Clarke has since shown her that there is merit in subverting these constructs, and she wonders if the same might be true for someone like Wells. She looks at him and sees a boy about her age, highly educated and capable, yet nevertheless feeling overwhelmed by the prospect of Heda’s request. What she has asked of him is no small feat. Lexa swallows, deciding to speak to him as she once did with Clarke, in search of friendship.     

“You were once an outsider to the Trikru of TonDC,” Lexa begins, watching Wells’s face shift in surprise at the change in her tone. “I believe it is why you have excelled in your studies of diplomacy and foreign relations. Would you agree?”

“I—yes. I think that has probably played a big role. That, and my endless curiosity about a people we never knew existed,” Wells answers candidly.

“In many ways, the Azgedakru have been displaced as well. By virtue of Nia’s tyranny and abhorrent tactics of violence, the people of the North were reduced to isolationist warmongers for many years. I believe Ontari sees more in her people than Nia ever did. I believe that she wishes to do well by them, as I do my own people.”

“You do?”

Lexa nods once. “Yes.”

“So, if you feel that the Queen doesn’t intend to incite more violence or attack the clans of the Coalition, what’s the value in forcing an alliance?” Wells poses out of sheer curiosity.      

It is something that she has considered at length, and Lexa is struck again by a sense of camaraderie. Wells has pondered the same question that she has often asked herself since Ontari took the throne. The answer, she finds, is always the same.

“I do not believe a relationship between our peoples will stabilize into a lasting peace without the protections of the Coalition. The sworn promise of an alliance.”

“There are other clans outside the Coalition though,” Wells challenges lightly. “Floudonkru remain obstinately if not politely opposed, for one.”

“Floudonkru bring my people wine and fish. Azgeda, for countless seasons, brought the threat of war and excessive unrest,” Lexa counters.

Wells’s smile is conciliatory. “Point taken.”

Lexa considers her next thought, feeling an impulse to share with Wells what she has yet to disclose to any of her other advisors.

“That being said, I do not believe that peace between the clans must be achieved through one solution. My goal has always been to see the 12 clans unite under a stable Coalition, but I do not wish to uphold an uncompromising agenda for the sake of self-serving achievement.” Wells’s eyes widen noticeably at the admission, and Lexa allows for a fleeting grin. “I look forward to your insights after having met with Queen Ontari. Perhaps together we will then determine a way forward for all Kyongedon, even if the solution lies outside of the established Coalition.”

The bold proposition causes Wells to resume his confident and purposed demeanor, his chest swelling and his face resolute. “It would be an incredible honor.” He falters only slightly before asking, “Respectfully, Heda, I am determined to deliver the Queen to Polis for Sadgeda fou, and I appreciate you taking the time to explain some of your reasoning in sending me as an ambassador. But … why do you think that she’ll agree to see me when so many others have been refused an audience?”

There is a distinct quality to Wells that Lexa had recognized almost immediately—similar to Marcus’s soft-spoken kindness and subtlety. But he is also forthright. On the respectable side of obstinate determination. She very nearly smiles again. “You are one of Clarke’s closest friends. It stands to reason that you will not take no for an answer.”      

Wells smiles proudly at that, apparently pleased to have been associated with Clarke’s brazen resolve and stubborn temperament. “Mochof, Heda.”

Lexa nods her head in a wordless dismissal, turning again to the broad stone banister as Wells makes his exit. Her mouth ticks up imperceptibly, bolstered by their compatible exchange and feeling exceedingly confident that she has selected the right person to address Ontari. Now, even more so than before, she is ready to see Clarke.  

:::

Lexa arrives later than planned, waylaid as she so often is by various people in need of her attention. Ryder has accompanied her to this quiet, deserted section of the Tower, though he finds a position along the darkened corridor to allow Lexa to approach the room alone. Despite her impatience, Lexa opens the door with some level of caution, not knowing whether Clarke will have been left alone. She enters to find her pacing the length of a long table made of wood and iron. Two plates of hot food have been arranged alongside a carafe of wine, tin cups, cutlery, and linen napkins, but the room is empty save for the two of them.

“Hi,” Clarke smiles, pausing mid step as Lexa closes the door behind her with a gentle click.  

She has begun to miss Clarke during much shorter periods of time. She misses her compulsive interruptions. She misses her simple greetings. She misses her mischievous grins and the texture of her hair at the base of her neck. Lexa misses her, and they have not been separated for more than a handful of hours. As they tend to spend a great deal of time apart, typically for lengthy intervals, this development is most unfortunate.

She also finds her hesitations around Clarke continuously waning and immediately steps in close to reach for Clarke’s fingers. A kiss soon follows, something brief and light, like a greeting. “Did you find the room without any trouble?”

Clarke takes a curious look around the semi-dark space, poorly lit for the evening hour with too few candles. “Yeah. Sarak and Aasma walked me down here with the food.”

A private dinner had been the intention, an invitation from Lexa as delivered by Sarak earlier in the day. The agenda would be simple and concise: sharing food and long-overdue conversation. Now that she is within a breath from Clarke’s lips, Lexa realizes that she has very little interest in food or conversation of any sort.

“Good,” she answers, indulging in a much more languid kiss until a slowly spreading heat begins to pool low in her stomach.

Clarke’s fingers tangle into her braided hair, and Lexa is seconds away from wrapping her hands around Clarke’s thighs to lift her onto the table when Clarke breaks the kiss with a heavy breath. “Where are we exactly?”

Distracted by her parted lips, Lexa’s mind lags. “This room is … used for city planning.”

Clarke hums and falls back into rhythm with Lexa’s slow-paced lips and tongue until her hands slide from Lexa’s hair and onto her shoulders and chest. She leans back by inches to ask, “And, sorry—why are we in here exactly? ”

The answer is twofold—one half of which Lexa has not yet determined how to express with any shred of coherence. She opts to explain the easier of the two halves with a guarded smile.

“Anya suggested that a room without a bed might encourage a more focussed discussion of your Natblida work.”

Clarke’s bright bark of laughter echoes through the empty space, and Lexa smiles more openly. “I think it’s safe to say: we are failing miserably.”

Lexa sighs, already distracted again by the shape of Clarke’s lower lip. “Yes.”

“Do you want to just eat dinner back at your room then? This place is kind of creeping me out.”

The room is full of flickering shadows and low light, lit from above by hanging candles. It is a large room with plenty of tables and adequate workspace, meant to encourage productivity and collaboration between those responsible for keeping Polis running effectively. Lexa does not find anything particularly unsettling about the space, but she enjoys a sharp thrill at Clarke’s suggestion to return to her personal quarters.

“I cannot imagine we will see much more success in that setting,” she answers with an eyebrow quirked.

“Bed or no bed, I’m so hungry that, if necessary, I’ll promise straight to Anya’s face to keep my hands to myself so long as I get to eat whatever smells so good over there.”

The plates of still-steaming food have filled the room with the delicious scents of aromatic spices, and Lexa’s eyes graze over the contents to see curried vegetables in a rich, tomato stew and what is likely roasted lamb.

“That won’t be necessary,” she smiles, eyes returning to Clarke’s. “I will ask Ryder to bring the food. It is only two flights of stairs to my rooms, if you prefer to avoid the lift.”

The way Clarke’s face lights up at such a simple consideration, as if Lexa has just offered her the moon and stars, she has to wonder if they will not achieve productive conversation after all as Anya had forewarned.

:::

“Our first Commander was a fisa.” Lexa explains after a sip of wine. “Pramheda was a healer prone to exploration.” She smiles down the short length of sofa at Clarke’s rapt expression. “Like you.”

They have since managed to finish a meal, distracted only briefly by a heated kiss against the bedroom door that was abruptly ended by Ryder arriving with the food and wine. Plates now scraped clean sit on the table beside them with a carafe still halfway filled with wine. They have taken up a shared space on the small, green sofa where she and Clarke had first reunited over lunch days ago.

Clarke faces her with an arm propped along the back cushions and legs draped over Lexa’s in a relaxing heap between them. She loosely holds a cup of wine in her lap, taking intermittent sips between her many questions.

“And, how far back do Trigeda trace Heda’s lineage? The first Commander originated from Polis?”

“Pramheda was the first Natblida.”

Lexa can see the speed at which Clarke’s thoughts race, indicative by the slight widening of her clear, blue eyes. “You mean she—she took the first inoculation of serum to combat the radiation from the bombs?”

“She provided a path for survival,” Lexa answers calmly. As has always been the case, the defining events of their shared history are often observed from different perspectives, but Lexa no longer feels defensive about Clarke’s alternate point of view.  

She had expected Clarke to be the one predominantly sharing information—details of her travel, perhaps, and the inner workings of her and Raven’s ongoing study in Polis. Instead, Clarke has been curious about information surrounding Natblida origins and the teachings under which they are all trained. It has been a refreshing change to share that which Clarke has so often rejected as antiquated and irrelevant. Lexa feels content in her company, easily sharing the familiar history of her people and the beliefs which guide them.  

“You said there’s never been any specific study of the blood’s composition, but how much were you taught about the process of—” Clarke stops herself, quickly gnawing on her lower lip before continuing. “Do the teachings include any kind of scientific or historical explanation for the Nightbloods’ origins?”

Lexa smiles, as if to relax Clarke’s anxieties over asking too much or in the wrong way. “There is no great mystery to our beginnings, Clarke. In becoming the first Natblida, the Commander sacrificed her own life to ensure the survival of an entire people.”

Clarke’s face creases in calculation as she mumbles quietly, “She didn’t survive the serum.”

“Heda’s survival has always been secondary to the survival of her people,” Lexa offers proudly. “Ever since the beginning, her first priority has always been this. The loss of Pramheda's life was merely an initial demonstration of this priority.”

“Survival,” Clarke echoes, still with that contemplative frown.

Lexa nods. “It is because of Pramheda’s ultimate sacrifice following The Last War that Natblida are taught to strive for peace over power, to value equality over dominance.”

“No life outranks another,” Clarke recites, and Lexa smiles again with a simple, affirming nod. “Do the Elders retain any texts from that time period? Any written history of Pramheda?”

“Traditionally, it has always been an oral exchange of knowledge. In more recent years, we have begun transcribing the teachings into written form, but the process is slow."

Clarke sighs deeply. “Lexa, if the first Commander was an integral part of the research team who survived the bombs here in Polis, that means the scientific journals that Raven discovered were probably written, at least in part, by her.”  

It is an unexpected revelation, to say the least. Lexa feels her calm breathing stutter. “Writings? From Pramheda?” Clarke slowly nods.

Since the discovery of what Clarke has called a _research laboratory_ within the medical facility, Lexa has been occasionally briefed on its development from a reconstruction standpoint. By and large, any specific materials that were uncovered in the process have not been brought to her attention.

“These journals should be a part of your teachings, too,” Clarke suggests carefully. “You and your people should know not just what she did to save your people, but _how_ she did it. Her work is really incredible, Lexa. ”

“Yes,” Lexa confirms. “Pramheda helped to establish the first civilization here after the Last War, when it was again safe to walk into the open air. It is why Polis has maintained such significance for our people.”

“Not only that, but she literally made it _possible_ to walk in the open air in the first place.” Clarke shakes her head, as if still processing the information as she shares it. “To take such an active role in her work is almost unheard of—essentially becoming the first participant in her own trial. I mean, she changed the entire composition of her circulatory system without being able to predict conclusive results.”

“She risked her life for the benefit of others,” Lexa adds solemnly.

“Yeah, she did. The journals include really well-documented evidence of their research, too.” Clarke hesitates, taking another quick breath. “For instance, they knew about the side effects in Nightblood—the risk of mortality and everything. Raven thinks they might have even been working on a way to reverse the defect.”

A spike in Lexa’s heart rate precedes her question. “These journals, they contain a treatment?”

Clarke’s energy deflates in a single exhale even as Lexa holds her breath. “No.”

Lexa nods, absorbing the confirmation of a finality she has for so long expected. She feels oddly disconsolate, a response she finds curious to a piece of knowledge that she has spent her entire life learning to accept.

_Strength in weakness._

_Death cannot be fought._

Lexa’s mind spins beyond her control with these realities that she has always known. They have for so long grounded her, comforted her, left no room for worry or doubt. They have allowed her to keep a deafening focus on the safety and well-being of her people, instead of wallowing in her own misfortunes. Except that now she feels leaden with the truth and cast into chaotic uncertainty. Just like that, she comes unmoored.

Perhaps considering her impending death while being sat next to Clarke explains this sudden melancholy—such a dark contrast to their last few euphoric days together when death seemed far-flung and improbable. Some indeterminate speck on the horizon. Lexa goes very still, eyes cast to the floor in a thoughtful moment of heavy silence.

“Hei.” Clarke’s hand settles onto her leg and squeezes just below her kneecap. When Lexa meets her eye, Clarke’s fiery determination has replaced any previous indication of defeat. “Listen to me: just because the answers aren’t spelled out for me in some hundreds-year-old journal doesn’t mean for _one second_ that I’m giving up, Lexa. You said it yourself: I'm a healer in search of answers. Those medical scientists may not have figured out a treatment back then, but I will. I _promise_.” Lexa’s singular, wordless nod has Clarke moving closer, gently reaching for her hand to pull Lexa towards her. “Miya. Come here.”

Lexa shifts around until she can lean into Clarke’s open embrace, arms wrapping securely around her. It takes only the quick brush of a kiss against her temple for Lexa to lose composure, blinking back unshed tears that burn her eyes. She makes no sound, though her shoulders and chin begin to shake with the effort to contain her fragility. Clarke cradles her closer against her chest and runs a soothing hand up and down the notches of her spine. They sit for what could be long, silent hours but what Lexa knows is only minutes.

The few tears that had fallen have stopped when Lexa pulls back, though they stain her cheeks and blur her vision as she searches Clarke’s face for further signs of doubt. She leans forward in a kiss shaken with uncertainty, asking Clarke for a different sort of comfort. She is met with strength and security—Clarke’s lips are warm and full, moving against Lexa’s shaky mouth with assurance. When their breathing grows rough and heavy, she reaches for Lexa’s hands, pulling her gently off the sofa and guiding them towards the bed.

They undress with a familiar urgency that had begun to dissipate over the past few days, but that Lexa remembers keenly from their first night together. Hands tugging at hemlines and buttons and clasps, and Clarke kissing her with a desperation that Lexa can feel coursing her veins.

Her emotions are still so raw and brimming, Lexa nearly breaks apart each time she opens her eyes to look at Clarke. She trembles under her careful touch and her soft, searching looks. Once their clothes are removed entirely, she pulls Clarke into her lap in the center of the mattress, needing to feel her everywhere—skin and heat and movement. Lexa holds her closely with one hand around the small of Clarke’s back, the other slid into her hair and cradling her jaw as their mouths slant together.

With Clarke’s legs wrapped around her, she gasps loudly into Lexa’s mouth as Lexa slides a hand between them and slowly presses into her. Her hips begin to chase a rhythm, canting against Lexa’s hand while breaths pant hot and quick against her parted lips. They have torn themselves apart in this way many times before, stripped down to their barest parts for the other to see. But, not like this. Something about their closeness feels altogether distinct. As Clarke’s forehead comes to rest against her own, Lexa knows that this exchange is something other. In this moment, they are at risk of revealing more than familiar vulnerabilities.

“Clarke.” Lexa waits for her eyes to open before struggling to ask Clarke for her own relief. “Yu meika. Beja.”

Clarke responds without hesitation, easily slipping her fingers into Lexa with a greedy kiss. Lexa feels herself exhale in a shuddering breath at Clarke's touch, and then her hips and legs strain to match Clarke’s erratic rhythm.

She is forced to break their kiss as a shattering pleasure surges through her, head falling against Clarke’s shoulder as she unravels with soft whimpers and panting breaths. Clarke follows quickly—a sharp cry into Lexa’s neck and heels dug into her back as she pulses around Lexa’s fingers. Her body goes momentarily rigid before slackening against Lexa’s still-trembling frame. Lexa remains completely still as their breathing slowly regulates, hands still trapped between their bodies in a slick, fragrant heat. Clarke moves first, placing a succession of kisses along the crook of Lexa’s neck and shoulder as she slowly withdraws her hand.

At the shift in movement, Lexa feels an unfettered swell of emotion rising in her throat, which she releases in a gasping sob against Clarke’s heated skin. She feels a sudden sense of loss, a comforting presence ripped away though Clarke has hardly created any space between them. Clarke is able to wrench from her a frightening vulnerability that Lexa has revealed to no one else, and she often does so with nothing more than a simple, brushing touch. Lexa removes her hand from between them only to clutch desperately at Clarke’s back. She buries her face along Clarke’s chest to fall further apart even as Clarke continues to hold her together.

“You’re okay,” Clarke whispers, kissing the spot where her words touch Lexa’s skin. “You’re okay. You’re okay.” She repeats it again and again like a quiet refrain.

Lexa wonders who it is that she is trying to convince.

:::

Lexa wakes to low, muffled voices. She finds it difficult to rouse herself from what must have been a heavy sleep despite the distant rustling of linens and the sound of hushed conversation. When the bed dips near her abdomen and a warm hand slides down the length of her arm, Lexa blinks.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” Clarke says quietly, and Lexa shifts so that she can see her more clearly. “But, Sarak says your meetings begin early today, and Aasma is on her way up with food.”

Lexa’s voice scratches, her thoughts still clouded with sleep. “You are wearing my robe.”

The room is still dimmed by a greying light, but Lexa can see Clarke blush at the observation. She runs the silky fabric through her fingers, looking down to her lap with a smile. “Yeah, well, I didn’t think your personal attendants were interested in seeing all my bits on display.”

“You would be surprised,” Lexa grins.

Clarke laughs softly and lightly pinches the skin of Lexa’s bicep. When her eyes meet Lexa’s, a flash of uncertainty can be seen in the curve of her lips. “Is it okay that I’m here like this?”

“Like what?”

Lexa’s hand slips beneath the silken fabric and onto Clarke’s kneecap. Her fingers graze a familiar scar, and she thinks of TonDC summers long past. Cool, river water. A forest floor she could trace with her eyes closed. Unforeseen kisses.

“In Heda’s bedroom, wearing her robes, and interacting with her personal guard?”

Lexa almost laughs at the inquiry—it is so rare that Clarke ever treads into situations with any shred of caution. Lexa has always known her to go where she pleases and engage how she chooses without trepidation and certainly with no concern of consequence. The small, raised scar beneath her fingertips seems to underpin Lexa’s quiet observations.

“I’m _serious_ ,” Clarke probes despite her mild laughter, as she watches Lexa fighting back a broader grin. “We’re not breaking some kind of sacred law, are we?”  

They have not yet discussed any boundaries nor sought out any definitions to their time spent together, though Lexa suspects there remains very little mystery to their mutual intentions. Particularly given their last encounter just hours prior, if not for the years they have spent in the same, unspoken orbit around their feelings. How she feels about Clarke is all but spoken aloud at this point. Lexa finally shifts into a sitting position so that she is eye level with Clarke, leant against an array of pillows and the ostentatious headboard of carved pine.

“No. There are no laws restricting Heda’s personal … interactions,” Lexa answers carefully.

“Okay, good.” Clarke exhales, finding Lexa’s fingers with her own. “I didn’t think that there were actually _laws_ , I just—I mean, it’s fine. What we’re doing is fine, as is. We seem to be keeping things sort of … secretive. Which is also fine,” she rushes to say. But her underlying question still lingers, and Lexa can no longer ignore it.  

Licking her lips in hesitation, Lexa keeps her gaze on their fingers as they intertwine against the bed linens. For all that she was soundly sleeping moments ago, her heart now hammers a steady, nervous beat. “I have not—” she begins, only to pause with a rough swallow. “As Heda, there is not much that I have to myself. Every aspect of my life belongs to the people for whom I was born to serve.”

“I know.”

“In keeping this from others, it is not that I mean to hide you away, Clarke. I simply wished to have something for myself, even for a little while. Even if it is selfish.” She looks up to find Clarke’s watery smile, her throat bobbing as she works back the tears brimming her eyes. “Being with you like this is something that I have never before—I know that you have had your experiences with others, but for me—”

“Hey, no. Hang on.” Clarke shakes her head, squeezing harder to Lexa’s fingers as she extends her other hand into the air between them, gesturing first to Lexa and then herself. “This thing with you? I have _never_ had this with anyone else, Lexa. This is as new to me as it is for you. Okay?” Lexa nods through a shaky exhale, smiling just before Clarke leans in to kiss her lips as if to underscore the sentiment. “We don’t need to say anything about this to anyone,” Clarke softly tells her when they separate. “And, selfish or not, you deserve to have some things for yourself.”

Lexa nods again, this time with a contented smile. “Thank you.”

“How are you feeling this morning?” Clarke asks delicately.

Lexa knows that Clarke’s concern is as much for her physical ailments as it is for the complete unmooring of emotions that she exhibited the night previous. But all of that has fallen away, all of her fears and uncertainties gone completely. Lexa now feels refreshed and calm. She returns her fingers to wander beneath the hemline of her robe, which has risen above Clarke’s knees.

“My morning continues to improve exponentially.”

“Good,” Clarke smiles, again leaning closer. “Mine too.”

Lexa decides to kiss her thoroughly until Aasma returns with breakfast.

:::

Indius grows suddenly worse, and Clarke is inconsolable. She works too hard, eats too little, and rarely falls asleep before the sun has begun to show signs of early dawn along the horizon. She repeatedly pores over the journals which document Pramheda’s work, consults with Raven and with Abby, but nothing presents itself by way of answers to help cure Indius. Lexa does not think about what it means for the rest of them.

Her gentle cajoling for self-care goes unheard or is blatantly ignored, and her frustrations at watching Clarke overextend herself are at a tipping point after a week of sleepless nights. She has her own never-ending list of responsibilities and daily matters on which to attend, but thoughts of Clarke’s well-being, as always, weigh heavy on her conscience. Short of apprehending Clarke and locking her in a guarded room of the Tower, she finds herself at a loss for what to do. In time, where Lexa continuously falls short, Heda provides a solution.

She stands behind a broad, wooden table which displays a large land map, hands braced along its surface and gaze scrutinizing, while several advisors provide varied arguments for redrawing the territories. Continuous influx in trade and travel is changing the landscape, and the Coalition must adapt to accommodate the individual clans and keep peace.

Breaking into the relative quiet of their contemplative discussion, a short confrontation can be heard in the corridor before the door bangs open and in stalks Clarke like a raging storm.

“What the _hell_?” Demanding and intrusive as ever. Lexa all but sighs openly.

Heda does not shift her stance behind the table—her gaze practically bored at the interruption—though each of her advisors have fallen silent, eyes cast warily towards Clarke’s angry face and Sarak, who lingers calmly a few steps behind her.

Lexa maintains an air of practiced composure as she stands to full height, folding her hands behind her back. “How might I help you, Clarke?”

It is not often that she and Clarke find themselves in the presence of others, but Lexa defaults to professionalism even if Clarke seems to have forgotten her place.

“You can start by telling me why there are six guards outside the medical facility that refuse to let me through the front entrance, _Commander_ ,” Clarke snaps. “And then, you can call them off so that I can access the building.”

Julius, a meek, soft-spoken delegate from Yujleda, clears his throat at Clarke’s brash disrespect and looks to the floor. Lexa did not expect this would be a conversation they could have civilly, let alone in the company of others. She turns her attention to the team of advisors and delegates surrounding the table with a quiet sigh.

“Gon we, beja. We will continue this discussion tomorrow.”

The room empties quickly, and Lexa waves off Sarak’s presence as well, who gladly leaves Lexa to deal with Clarke’s hostility on her own—eyebrows raised but otherwise silent as she exits. When the door clicks shut, Lexa sighs.  

“Clarke—”

“You can’t keep me from the lab, Lexa. Or the medical wing.”

“That is precisely what my jurisdiction as Heda allows,” Lexa challenges with no small amount of authority.

Clarke approaches the table in a fury, and Lexa is almost relieved at the barrier between them. “My work is there. Indius is there. I won’t be kept from either of those responsibilities.”

“Indius is being tended to by Lincoln and your mother. Both of whom are, at present, more capable providers because they know that in order to be of service to others, healers must first care for themselves.”

“I don’t have time to have this argument with you again!” Clarke shouts. “You _know_ that Indius is sick. Call off the guards and let me get back to work.”

Lexa grinds her jaw and looks across the empty room to avoid seeing the dark circles beneath Clarke’s eyes. It will be easier to refuse Clarke, she has learned, if not looking directly at her. “Return to your room for food and rest, Clarke. You will be admitted entrance to the medical facility again in the morning.”

Clarke rounds the table to crowd into Lexa’s frame and unleash her aggression within a breath of Lexa’s face. Heda is outfitted for a day of work—dressed in armor and weaponry that denotes her authority. She does not wear the kohl, but her eyes are hardened and her jaw set. She wonders if Clarke knows just how quickly and effortlessly Lexa could have her restrained if she were an actual threat. It is a tempting thought, if only to see the absolute shock on Clarke’s otherwise vicious face.

“I don’t need you to take care of me,” she says lowly, shaking with her anger and fatigue. Lexa breathes out her frustrations and tilts her gaze towards the ceiling to keep composure. “I need you to let me do my job.”

Their iron wills have clashed too many times, and Lexa knows at this point that the only solution to their stalemate lies in a softer approach. She wets her lips with the tip of her tongue as her fingers gently tuck back a braid that has fallen loose from Clarke’s soft, blonde hair. Clarke flinches at the gesture as if the touch is unfamiliar. As if they had not woken together in Lexa's bed some hours ago.

Lexa’s tone is careful and quiet much like her touch, as it had been when they were still lying in bed. “Clarke.”   

“You have to let me do this.” Clarke’s weakened demand is no longer laced in anger but instead cracks with desperation.

“I know that you worry for Indius, and I do not wish to deter your progress in finding a treatment. But to risk your own health in the process will accomplish nothing.” Lexa presses her lips to Clarke’s furrowed brow, and this time she does not startle, she exhales in defeat. “Get some rest, Clarke. Please. You may return to the facility at first light if you choose.”

“Utilizing Heda’s gonakru was a totally underhanded tactic,” Clarke grumbles, nevertheless slipping her arms around Lexa’s waist so that she can lay her head against the smooth, leather breastplate across her chest.

“You left me no alternative,” Lexa sighs, her own arms wrapping securely around Clarke’s shoulders. “I have always been fairly unsuccessful in my attempts to give you direct orders.”

Clarke scoffs without lifting her head. “So you resorted to brute force?”

“I briefly considered having you locked within the Tower.”

“ _Jesus._ ” Clarke’s laugh sounds tired while her loose grip barely holds to Lexa’s body.

“This seemed like a less authoritarian approach.”

“Fine. I’ll take a nap.” Clarke cranes her neck to catch Lexa’s eye, scowling without much intent. “But I’m still going to be mad at you when I wake up.”

Lexa kisses her downturned mouth, wishing she could abandon her responsibilities and return to Clarke’s room with her. “Yes. I would expect no less.”  

:::

Polis is teeming with Kyongedon from all across the territories. Sadgeda fou is set to commence in a matter of days, and the city is at capacity. The stall holders wake early and stay open late to accommodate the influx of travelers through their open-air markets. Lexa maintains her unspoken opposition to lengthy festivities, but she does enjoy the company of her people from far-flung clans like Boudalan and Sankru. She enjoys the exotic cuisines and unfamiliar music, sharing in their diverse cultures as these people take up residence in her city, some for the very first time.

While her own wellness has maintained without further concern, even Indius has seen some measure of improvement to her overall health—the combination of which has returned Clarke to her moderate levels of stress and worry. Lexa can almost be grateful for her daily, forced examinations for pain and fatigue if it means that Clarke eats well and sleeps soundly beside her.

“You do not plan on interrupting this display of competitive prowess by hurling yourself into the arena, do you?”

Clarke tightens her jaw with a narrowed gaze at Lexa’s taunt, tugging a bit more forcefully than is strictly necessary when removing her decorative pauldron. Clarke sets the marker of Heda’s status onto a tall, wooden chair along with a few other garments, crossing her arms along her stomach as she returns her attention to Lexa.

“That depends. Are you planning to get your ass handed to you by the Queen of the North?”

Just two days prior, Wells had delivered on his mission to bring members of the Azgedakru, including the Queen herself, back to Polis. Despite her longstanding confidence in his abilities, Lexa had still been pleasantly surprised as Ontari’s procession rolled through the front gates.

“I plan to provide these people with an enticing competition between two, skilled warriors—a show of good relations between the leader of Azgeda and the Commander of Kyongedon. There is no threat of loss, merely a friendly spar to officially commence Sadgeda fou.”

Clarke’s mouth twists skeptically. “Okay so, when Ontari disarms you and ends up winning the match handily—you’re willing to accept that?”

“I am offended at your prediction of the outcome, Clarke.”

“ _Hypothetically._ ”

“Hypothetically, I have no intention of conceding the match,” Lexa smirks to Clarke’s exaggerated eye roll.

“Braggart.”

“My confidence is hardly misplaced,” Lexa counters, adjusting the straps and clasps of her armor out of a restless habit. “Combative training to overcome opponents while weaponless is a common focus for Natblida. Should I be stripped of my swords, which is unlikely, the match would be far from lost.”

Lexa had proposed the friendly show of strengths to Ontari over dinner the night previous. Despite the time that has passed in which Ice Nation has refrained from striking out against her people, the clans of the Coalition remain skeptical. A palpable tension began coursing the city of Polis at their arrival, and Lexa wishes to diffuse any notions of violence with Azgeda. The goal, as always, is peace.

A horn sounds as Lexa finishes adjusting the blunted training swords along her back. They stand within a small enclosure, but the throngs of spectators who surround the large arena can be seen and heard despite their relative privacy. Clarke rests her palms against the smooth, leather breastplate that she so often helps Lexa remove at the end of long days.

“Win or lose, just … try not to get hurt, okay?”

Lexa is warmed by the earnest request, leaning in to kiss Clarke quickly before making Heda’s grand entrance into the arena. “Do not worry for my safety. I am quite often in the company of an exceedingly talented fisa.”

Clarke is distracted by the flattery just long enough for Lexa to place one final kiss along her temple before making a hasty exit. She ducks out of the enclosure into the bright sunlight and climbs the steps to a long platform which serves as seating for high-ranking officials of Polis and visiting delegates from each of the clans. Lexa pauses for a moment to appreciate the view before her.

Positioned at the apex of the arena, she is stood before her people. They have gathered collectively, not for the sake of battle, but in celebration of tradition and of peace. Even with a previously sworn enemy among them—white painted faces that once symbolized a menacing terror—her people look strong, and well, and assured. Once she steps into the center of the arena to greet Ontari, Lexa is met with thunderous applause. She and the Queen exchange a brief greeting of goodwill, and the match begins.

:::

A split across her upper lip is hardly cause for concern, though Clarke tsks the injury as if Lexa has sustained multiple broken bones or a forceful blow to the skull. She had stupidly caught the brunt of Ontari’s elbow midway through the match, but managed to avoid any other bruising contact. It had been undeniably competitive—suspenseful and entertaining, if the crowd’s audible participation had been any indication. In the end, Ontari had stumbled and dropped her weapon, halting the match with a risen hand of concession. Lexa stood panting under a bright afternoon sun, still with both her swords, wondering if she could manage to discreetly catch Clarke’s eye to flaunt her victory.

They now sit in Lexa’s quarters while Clarke tends to the insignificant wound on her lip. Even now it barely bleeds. Still, Lexa quietly enjoys the attention no matter how excessively coddling it may be.

“I noticed a lot of yongon,” Clarke says as she dabs carefully at Lexa’s top lip with a slight, concentrated frown. “From Azgeda.”

“Yes,” Lexa answers, pleased if not surprised that Clarke has noticed. She adjusts her posture once Clarke is finished and begins cleaning up her supplies. “The ratio of children to warriors in the Queen’s traveling party is significant.”

“I take it that wasn’t an accident?”

“Nor was it by my suggestion. I made a similar observation to her over the dinner we shared two nights ago.”

“What did she say?” Clarke asks, angling herself so that they are granted these small points of contact as she gives Lexa her full attention.

She wonders if these gestures will ever grow mundane, become routine—if Clarke’s bony knee resting against her leg will someday cease to elicit a thrill. She suspects that, in some way, being tethered to Clarke will always maintain a sense of novelty. Lexa fights to keep her mind from wandering with these thoughts of lofty romance, lightly clearing her throat before responding.

“It was the result of a conversation she shared with Wells, actually.”

“My Wells?”

Lexa smiles at the way Clarke’s excitement is instantly visible, her immediate swell of pride in a lifelong friend and the unrestrained possessiveness she feels for the people of the Ark. There are so few distinctions left between their people, but Clarke and her friends survived an experience that perhaps no other humans ever will. It has resulted in the sort of unquestionable bond that Lexa associates with other Natblida. With Anya, too. Wells, for all intents, is Clarke’s family.

“Yes. Ontari fears that the generations who came before us will never fully accept a peace between our people—too scarred from a recent history of violence and inequality.”

“She’s right,” Clarke sighs in resignation.

“She and Wells spoke about the fact that even those of our own generation still carry some measure of mistrust that cannot be entirely erased.”

A look of realization crosses over Clarke’s features. “That’s why she brought so many young kids. A kind of visual representation for the future—a sign of hope.”

Lexa smiles, nodding slowly. “It is the yongon of our people, and their eventual yongon, that will mend the severed ties between Azgeda and the rest of the Kyongedon.” A yawn escapes her before she can stop it, though she tries to cover it with the back of her hand.

“You’ve had a long day,” Clarke smiles sympathetically.

“The requirements of Heda during these festivities often wear on me more so than any of my other responsibilities, including the call to war.”

“Well, at least you’re not being _dramatic_ about it or anything.” Clarke slides a hand onto Lexa’s upper leg with a teasing smile, even as Lexa is attempting a disapproving frown. “You’re all done for the day though, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Lexa sighs, resting her head against the back of the sofa. “Aasma will return shortly to draw a bath, and then I plan to sleep very soundly until dawn.”

Clarke seems to misinterpret the information, and begins to move as if to leave. Though it is entirely misplaced, Lexa is somewhat relieved that despite everything between them, Clarke still experiences these brief flashes of doubt. It is an unfounded impulse that they share, and it has a way of making Lexa feel closer to her still. Clarke's face contorts in uncertainty as she struggles with her indecision until Lexa covers her hand with her own and smiles assuredly.

“Stay, Clarke. I always prefer to have you sleeping beside me.”

The invitation relaxes Clarke’s posture immediately, and she is back to offering Lexa the type of openly mischievous smiles that are so indicative of her personality. “Are you sure? Because I might impede on all that sleep you’re planning to get.” Lexa’s smile only grows as Clarke further encroaches into her personal space. “And did you say something about a bath?”

“If I grant you free rein in the bathtub, will you allow me to sleep once we are in bed?”

“Are we negotiating now, Commander?” Clarke laughs, nose brushing over the curve of Lexa’s jaw. “Is that what’s happening?”

Lexa is like this with no one—open and playful. Relaxed and flirtatious and completely genuine. Sometimes anxious and vulnerable, but always honest. It is striking to see how their dynamic has evolved in short strides. Borne out of conflicting ideologies and impassioned disputes, she and Clarke are far more alike, more compatible, than a younger version of herself would have ever believed. They kiss softly for long minutes—Clarke carefully avoiding the small cut as best she can—until a knock at the door separates them. Lexa sits up to call for Aasma to enter as an odd, rushing sensation swells through her stomach and blooms in her chest, making it difficult to breathe. She registers a sharp, blinding pain behind her eyes, and then her vision goes black.   

:::

__


	3. Dynamic Equilibrium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke can tell that Lexa has been smiling already—her eyes warmed by the affection she holds for these children—but something in her face shifts as their eyes meet. Clarke can feel it from across the room just like the heat from the fireplaces. It’s a look meant just for her, a curve to Lexa’s mouth that she could sketch from memory a hundred years from now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dynamic Equilibrium: a system in a steady state.

**_Winter_ **

Lexa doesn’t wake for nearly two days.

Heda’s advisors and those closest to her are insistent that Lexa remain within the Tower instead of being treated at the nearby medical facility.

 _It is imperative that suspicions not be raised surrounding Heda’s health,_ or so they tell her.

Clarke does her best not to roll her eyes, somewhat unsuccessfully. At least a handful of those in the city have likely noticed Heda’s sudden absence, particularly with Sadgeda fou celebrations now in full swing.

Raven brings her tea that she barely drinks and food that she doesn’t eat. Clarke hovers near Lexa’s bedside instead—obsessively checking vitals, monitoring her temperature and breathing, feeling completely helpless. Abby does her rounds, as do Nyko and Lincoln, but a flurry of able healers does nothing to improve the Commander’s health, and Clarke’s stomach churns in all the uncertainty.

Lexa’s body sweats in a fever that doesn’t break for an entire day, and Clarke rests only when she can no longer hold her eyes open from sheer, anxious exhaustion. When Lexa finally wakes, blinking groggily against an early afternoon sun, she calls for Anya.

“Hei,” Clarke whispers, bolting towards the pillows where Lexa has rested, unmoving, for almost 48 hours. “Anya’s not here right now, but she’ll be back really soon.”

Lexa’s mouth clicks harshly, parched from so little moisture. “Clarke?”

“Yeah.” Clarke’s heart is a rapid, pounding beat against her sternum, and her eyes instantly blur with unshed tears. “I’m right here.” She swallows thickly, intent on keeping composure, and reaches for Lexa’s hand where it rests on her stomach. “Jesus, you scared me. I’m so glad you’re awake.”

“How—” Lexa frowns, struggling to speak as her voice scratches.

“Here,” Clarke rushes to pour water from the pitcher near the bed, hands shaking as she lifts a cup to Lexa’s dry lips. “You’ve been unconscious for … a little while,” she says vaguely, not wanting to startle Lexa with the news that she’s been out of it for the better part of two days. “How are you feeling? Any pain? Any nausea? Do you—do you remember what happened?”

Lexa drinks slowly but finishes a full cup of water, licking the moisture from her lips when she’s through. She further appraises Clarke with a look of dismay and then says, in complete avoidance of her own health: “You have not slept.”

“I’m okay,” Clarke shakes her head. “It’s been—I’m fine.”

“How long?”

Clarke shrugs, tears brimming again that she cannot control. “Almost two days.”

“Clarke, I must—” Lexa struggles to sit up in a sudden panic, but Clarke uses a gentle force to hold her in place.

“Wait, Lexa, _wait_. You need to lie still. Indra and Marcus and Anya have everything under control, okay? Polis is fine. Your people are well, but you are not, and right now you still need to rest.”

“I have apparently been at rest for a great length of time.” Lexa’s face hardens, her gaze clearly displeased at being restrained even if by Clarke’s familiar touch.

“Listen, just—I need to make sure that you’re okay. _Please_. Let me do that.”

Lexa exhales in concession rather quickly, moving to place one hand over Clarke’s where it rests against her stomach. “When you are finished with your examinations, you must rest yourself, Clarke.”

“I will,” Clarke says through a watery smile. “I promise.”

Squeezing briefly to her fingers, Lexa’s mouth is a well-worn frown of resignation. “You are a very poor liar.”  

:::

Anya is a fortress of strength, but even fortresses eventually crumble.

“You were meant to _heal_ her, Skai fisa.” Anya slams into the room with a low, quiet force, and Clarke startles from her chair where she’d been struggling to read.

She’s been in the lab for hours, eyes burning and head throbbing as she tries for the hundredth time to parse the contents of the medicinal trial that produced the Nightbloods. Lexa is thankfully stable—eating, drinking, communicating—but nevertheless bedridden. Naturally, against her will. She insists, of course, that she’s fine and more than ready to return to her duties, though Clarke suspects there are lingering symptoms that she’s valiantly keeping to herself.

“I’m doing everything that I can, Anya,” Clarke says tiredly and stands to her feet to stretch her limbs.

Anya encroaches still, bodily crowding Clarke’s space at a lab table. “You have done _nothing_.”

“Are you fucking joking?” Clarke squares herself to Anya’s imposing stature, instantly ready for a fight that she is sure to lose. “I’m—”

“You administer treatments that are worthless. You turn in circles around your studies like a confused, hapless child.”

Clarke grinds her teeth and clenches her fists to withstand Anya’s baseless insults without lashing out. “Look, I know you’re scared, and I know you hate to see her like this. I do, too. But, coming in here to insult me and my work isn’t going to help you feel better. And, it sure as hell isn’t going to help Lexa.”

“It is your ineffectual methods that I detest.” Anya roughly shoves a stack of journals, causing them to slide across the black table top. Clarke barely manages to catch them before they scatter to the floor.

“Get out,” she growls, shaking now with the effort to control her rage.

“What the hell is going on here?” Raven’s voice is laced with concern and suspicion as she enters the lab and quickly makes her way towards them.

“Nothing,” Clarke swallows, still inches from the menacing grimace of one of Trigeda’s most skilled warriors. “Anya was just leaving.”

“Your failures will be paid for in blood,” Anya threatens lowly.

“Hey, whoa.” Raven extends an arm between them without hesitation, setting a hand onto Anya’s shoulder in a brazen attempt to separate them. She waits until Anya’s lethal glare has locked onto her before saying, “I’m gonna need you to back the fuck away from my friend, who, by the way, is trying to save _your_ friend’s life.”  

Anya’s face has no tells and her voice never wavers, but her eyes are shadowed by the lives she has taken. “Remove your hand.”

Nevertheless, Raven does not relinquish her grip on Anya’s shoulder and instead enunciates each syllable, letting the consonants pop as she reiterates her command. “Back. Up.”

For several tense seconds, the three of them remain static—breathing lowly, waiting for someone else to make the first move towards concession. Anya eventually breaks away, taking an imperceptible step backwards while Raven’s hand finally drops from her shoulder. Clarke holds her breath still—she really had no intention of witnessing a homicide this afternoon, though both Raven and Anya look poised to kill.  

“Touch me again and the bones in your hand will never properly heal,” Anya threatens.

Raven immediately takes over the space that Anya has just vacated, placing herself in a position to look her in the eye. She crosses her arms and stands toe-to-toe with Anya’s hulking boots. “Stay the fuck out of my lab, and we don’t have to come in contact with each other ever again.”   

Anya’s gaze cuts to Clarke over Raven’s shoulder, but she says nothing more before turning to leave. Clarke’s pulse races even as she releases a long breath and closes her eyes. When she reopens them, Raven has turned towards her with a look of sharp concern.

“Dude, what the fuck was that?”

Clarke shakes her head, still watching the empty doorway where Anya has just disappeared into a darkened corridor. “She’s frustrated. And probably scared out of her mind. I can’t really blame her. We’re not really making any promising advancements, Raven.”

“Your mom and Nyko are taking another stab at an antidote right now. I just came down here to grab samples so that we can isolate the pathogen and run the tests, actually.” Raven reaches out to rub a circle against Clarke’s elbow with her thumb. “This shit takes time, you know?”

“We don’t _have_ time.”

“I know that, but Lexa and Indius are both stable. We haven’t had reports of any other fatalities. Things aren’t as grim as they could be,” Raven argues. “Let’s just focus on running more tests and not on everything we still haven’t figured out, okay?”  

“I just can’t help but think that we’re missing something.” Clarke scowls into the near distance, her eyes drifting across the stacks of journals that seem increasingly useless.

“Look at me, Clarke. Do you need to take a break? Fresh air? Food?”

“No, I’m fine.” Clarke shakes her head, feigning competency as best she can.

“Well, you look like shit.” Raven crosses her arms and raises an accusatory eyebrow. “When’s the last time you slept?”

“Now you sound like Lexa,” Clarke says with a more pronounced scowl.

Raven only grins and waggles her eyebrows as she juts her chin. “Oh yeah? That working for you?”

For the first time in days, Clarke laughs. A small, tired chuckle that feels no less like infinite relief. “Shof op.” She lightly shoves Raven’s shoulder, though it does little to discourage her amusement.

“We’ll get there, Griffin,” Raven assures her more seriously. “I never start something that I can’t finish. You got me?”

Clarke’s expression turns skeptical. “Oh really? Like going to fisticuffs with a fully-armed general of the Grounder army?”   

“The unstable knife-wielder with anger management issues?” Raven scoffs, rolling her eyes. “She’s all bark.”

For the second time in as many minutes, Clarke laughs again.

:::

The sun has already vanished behind the taller buildings of Polis by the time Clarke exits the lab in search of food. From there she is on her way to check on Lexa. Shadows stretch along the dusty cobbled streets, and the air is already much cooler as the last several weeks of autumn slowly expire into a persistent chill. Clarke hurries towards the remaining stalls of the open market—hoping for pastry pockets filled with savory meats and roasted potatoes, or maybe the grain bowls topped with spicy vegetables that Lexa likes—when a looming figure emerges from behind the medical facility, and Clarke jolts in surprise.

“ _Jesus_! Are you just lurking around every corner of this building today, or what?”

Anya approaches with purposed, measured steps though she stops a few feet away and says nothing.

Clarke’s stomach growls painfully and her mouth waters at her proximity to the stalls of fragrant food. She would really prefer not to be murdered on an empty stomach. “If you’re here to threaten my life again, I’m going to need to get something to eat first.”

Still, Anya says nothing, and Clarke’s suspicions run eerily up the back of her neck. There is no plausible scenario in which Anya takes a sword to one of Clarke’s carotid arteries in the middle of the city and lives to tell about it; though reason and rationale don’t stop a crawling fear from cloaking her. Simply put, and though she would _never_ admit it aloud: Anya is scary as fuck.

Clarke crosses her arms in direct defiance of her very real intimidation and goes for smug annoyance instead. “Look, I’m hungry and really, fucking tired. I don’t have time for this—” batting her hand around into the air in front of her, Clarke gestures to Anya’s darkened figure “—whatever the hell this nonverbal confrontation is. So if you have something to say, get on with it.”

When she speaks, Anya does not directly meet Clarke’s eye. It should be a glaring prophecy of what’s to come, though Clarke overlooks it completely.

Anya has never been meek, but her voice is unrecognizable in this moment. “I have spent my entire life protecting her. I do not know how to reconcile the limits of my capabilities.”

The admission is like a pin to Clarke’s balloon of rage. As much as she has spent the past few hours bursting with fear and anger towards Anya, Clarke’s heart breaks for her now. It is a helplessness she knows all too well; there is no way to stymie the pain of falling short for the people you love.

“I know this is hard. I’m sorry.”

Anya grips the hilt of a sword that hangs at her side, practically speaking through clenched teeth. “I have no protections left to offer her, apart from replacing her blood with my own.”

In the absence of words to console her, Clarke shifts on her feet—out of discomfort, out of exhaustion. Her mind reels at the reality of Anya, of all people, opening up about her feelings surrounding Lexa. Her desperate sentiment echoes through Clarke’s head, ringing in the silence.

And then, everything comes to a deafening halt.

“Wait—what did you just say?”

Finally, Anya meets Clarke’s now-panicked gaze. “I said that if I were I able—”

“You would give Lexa your blood.” Clarke can hardly form the words her mouth is so dry. “Oh my god. Oh my god.” As much as her thoughts race at blinding speeds, her synapses feel stunned. “Anya. The Nightbloods—they don’t need a treatment for their blood, they need _different_ blood.”

“I do not understand,” Anya says, cautiously approaching Clarke by a step or two.

“I can’t believe we didn’t think of this before, and then you just—” Clarke shakes her head, there’s no use dwelling on her own shortcomings. “ _Shit_. Come on, we have to go tell Lexa.” She spins on her heel and starts for the Tower. For once it’s Anya who is left to jog after her before falling into stride. “We were busy looking for ways to combat the effects of the original serum used to create Nightblood—medicinal resources that might reverse its effects.”

Anya frowns. “But you have been unable to locate a viable treatment.”

“Yes.”

“I still do not understand.”

“The solution is so much less complex than creating an antidote,” Clarke explains. “Or, at the very least, we’ve been focused in the wrong direction entirely. We use blood transfusions.”

“What is this … _transfusion_ of blood?”

Clarke bounds up the front steps of the Tower, never losing momentum as they breeze past the guards and into the atrium. “We use common red blood—like yours and mine—and transfer it into the bloodstream of Natblida,” Clarke explains.

“This procedure will change the blood,” Anya says, oddly somber.

“Yes. Essentially, Natblida cannot survive without altering the components of their bloodstream in some way.”

“You have done this before?” Anya asks as they pause outside the lift.

Clarke huffs as they wait, impatience making her agitated. “No. My mom would have likely done the procedure on the Ark.”

“There were no Natblida on your ship.”

“I realize that, but—”

“Then how can you be sure this will work?”

All of Clarke’s vanishing resolve is back in an instant, and she feels the ghost of a smile forming as she tells Anya with absolute certainty, “It’s definitely gonna work.”

“Heda will require more concrete assurance than your lofty optimism.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, stepping onto the lift once its gates have been opened by two of the Tower guards. “Obviously we won’t know anything for sure until we’re able to perform a transfusion on actual Natblida, but for now you need to trust my optimism, lofty or not. It’s going to be a lot easier to convince Lexa that she should consider this alternative if we can present it as a united front.”

Anya’s resulting grimace at Clarke’s suggestion is as if she’s been told to melt down all of her prized weaponry into musical instruments. Just like that, Lexa’s predilection for dramatics is explained in a single look. Clarke could almost smile again at their similarities.

When the lift jolts to a halt, she barely feels it, her adrenaline already too high and her mind still racing from the news they’re about to share with Lexa. Clarke rushes into the wide corridor which houses rooms specifically for the Commander. She heads straight for Lexa’s personal chambers where Sarak stands casually along the wall in the flickering light of torches that are hung throughout the stone halls.

“Hei. Is she still awake?” Clarke asks, barely pausing in her steps before moving past the guard for the door to Lexa’s room. It’s not terribly late—closer to suppertime—but Lexa has been dozing periodically ever since she had awoken earlier in the day.

“Sha, Heda is—”

Clarke hears only Sarak’s confirmation without waiting for anything else and pushes into Lexa’s bedroom. She can only assume Anya has followed, but her undivided focus is on getting to Lexa as quickly as possible. Merely a few hours have separated them, but Clarke’s panic still thrums from having seen Lexa collapse days ago. She needs to see her and touch her and feel her breath against her own skin.

“You’re up.” Clarke stops abruptly at seeing Lexa sitting on the small, blue settee of her informal sitting area instead of reclined in bed as she had expected.

Lexa is also joined by Indra and Gustus, who observe Clarke with mild curiosity, perhaps wondering why a young fisa has barged into Heda’s chambers unannounced and intruded on their privacy. They look to be in the middle of an informative discussion—papers strewn about on the table before them. In direct defiance of her weakened health, not to mention Clarke’s recommendations, Lexa has, of course, prematurely returned to work.  

“Good evening, Clarke. I am feeling well and had grown tired of lying in bed for hours on end.”

Clarke’s first instinct is to rush to Lexa’s side, slide her fingers around the pulse point against her wrist and check for signs of a returning fever by pressing her lips to Lexa’s forehead. She refrains from moving any closer for the sake of their shared company and flexes her hands into fists to stave off her impulses.

“Good. That’s—I’m glad you’re feeling better. I really need to speak with you.”

“Indra and Gustus were just informing me on some matters at hand concerning Sadgeda fou. Would you care to—”

“This can’t wait,” Clarke interrupts, not missing the way Indra grinds her jaw and Gustus clears his throat.

She probably should have allowed Lexa to finish her thought—or rather, allowed _Heda_ to complete a sentence in front of her highest military personnel—but there’s no time for propriety.

Anya must have since entered the room behind her because Lexa’s gaze shifts beyond her left elbow, and Clarke watches her breathing grow shallow. Clarke showing up unannounced is hardly surprising at this point. Clarke showing up with Anya in tow likely registers as highly suspicious, and Lexa’s face shows it.

“This is a discussion that we can continue in the morning if it pleases you, Heda.” Gustus addresses Lexa formally, but his gentle timbre is that of a caring guardian who has watched over her for ages.

Lexa nods imperceptibly, her eyes still locked on Anya’s quiet figure, and the giant man beside her stands to his full height, followed quickly by Indra as they wordlessly make their exit.

Once they’re gone, Clarke loses all resolve and approaches Lexa with urgency, brushing a hand across her forehead and reaching her fingers towards one of Lexa’s wrist like muscle memory. “How are you feeling? Are you okay?”

Lexa, not quite relaxing even under Clarke’s careful touch, finally looks over at her with tired eyes. “I am feeling both restless and fatigued. It is a frustrating paradox of sensations.”

“I know you hate to sit still, but your body will need more than a few hours to recover.”

“You said you have something you wish to discuss,” Lexa answers, avoiding Clarke’s concerns and directing her attention to Anya, who stands unobtrusively nearby. She doesn’t quite pull from Clarke’s loose hold but shifts only slightly so that they are not sat so intimately.

Clarke readjusts as well, angling her body to make Anya an equal part of their conversation. “Yes. We think,” Clarke cuts her eyes briefly to Anya, hoping to find a supportive ally and instead is met with predictable stoicism. “I’m pretty sure we’ve figured out how to save the Nightbloods.”

Her shock and disbelief is apparent, even as Lexa tries for calm curiosity. “A treatment has been found to be successful?”

“Not exactly,” Clarke answers delicately. “Not yet, anyway. I mean, we haven’t had time to test it yet, but I know it’s going to work.” She exhales in an attempt to calm her racing heartbeat. “I want to try a blood transfusion. On a Natblida.”

A tick in Lexa’s jaw is the only sign of her discomfort. “A transfusion. How does it work?”

Clarke takes a deep breath, determined to explain the process as simply as possible while treading a familiar line between her scientific upbringing and Trigeda’s sacred cultural history. “Nightblood unfortunately includes destructive properties that the medical research team couldn’t reverse. Your black blood is destroying the other cells in your blood that keep you healthy. There’s a way to infuse healthy red blood—like mine or like Anya’s—into damaged blood and restore a person back to good health.”

Lexa’s spine goes rigid and her gaze grows cold. “ _Damaged_ blood?”      

“I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant,” Clarke cringes, wishing she’d given herself time to prepare a more precise way to talk about this. Instead, she is underslept and frantic to get Lexa on board. “I know how vital Natblida are to you and the rest of the Kyongedon—I understand the importance that’s symbolized by the blood in your veins. You _have_ to know that by now. But Lexa,” Clarke sighs. “It’s also making you sick. Left untreated … we know what happens.”

Lexa doesn’t respond and instead casts her eyes to Anya, who of course has remained completely silent for the duration of Clarke’s poorly-delivered explanation. “Chit yu spin raun, Anya?”

Asking what Anya’s thoughts are on the subject is better than an outright refusal to consider the possibility. Clarke tries to calm her own, pounding heartbeat as the silence stretches.

“Ai laik nau fisa.”

“Healer or not—lacking expertise in any given area has never before stopped you from having an opinion,” Lexa shoots back.

Clarke’s gaze flits between them nervously. She has all but vanished from the conversation now, overshadowed by how intensely they look at one another. Anya grips her short sword by its leather hilt and watches Lexa with a muted desperation. She appears to be warring with her own response while her lightened eyes swirl with reluctance.

“Jus drein jus daun, Heda.”

Every ounce of defiance fades from Lexa’s eyes, and Clarke holds her breath. The large room falls eerily silent. In four simple but sacred words, Anya has effectively called into question everything Lexa was raised to accept beyond reproach.

 _Blood must have blood_ is meant to be a war cry. It is foundational to the Trigeda way of life—a cornerstone of Lexa’s teachings about peace and justice. It’s certainly not something meant to reinforce a scientific procedure that Clarke knows she doesn’t fully trust. Anya’s words hang heavily in the air, and Lexa looks momentarily betrayed.

“If we must exchange the blood of one for the blood of another to save Natblida,” Anya slowly rephrases, fighting against a waver in her voice, “then take every ounce from my veins. It is yours.”

Lexa blinks, and Clarke watches her eyes fill with tears. She feels wildly intrusive, being caught between two women displaying more affection for one another than perhaps they ever have before. Lexa bites hard to the inside of her lip and blinks the emotion away, swallowing back against her humanity. She is so rarely afforded the opportunity to be human; Clarke desperately wants to give her this moment.

But, time has never been on their side.

The sooner she speaks with Raven, her mother, and the rest of their team, the better off they’ll be in terms of testing her theory. Clarke feels a desperate restlessness creep into her bones. She readies herself to make an exit when Lexa finally breaks the silence.

“I need to speak with Ada,” she announces, her voice not nearly as fragile as she looks.

Clarke starts to move, eager to return to the lab. “I should—”

“I would like for you to join me,” Lexa says, and Clarke pauses in her movements.

“Oh.” She looks at Lexa, who still watches Anya. “Now?”

“Yes.”

“I will fetch her,” Anya says, sounding more like herself.

Lexa stands and nods, conjuring resilience by clasping her hands behind her back. She stands there, a great pillar of strength. A stalwart leader. Heda shows no signs of weakness, no fear for impending death. But it is not the Commander who carefully offers her gratitude to her closest confidant.

“Mochof, Anya.”

Anya returns Lexa’s nod and sweeps out of the room without another word.

:::

A harrowing distance springs up between them after Anya is gone—this niggling sense of unease that eats at Clarke’s insides as she and Lexa pick at their food and wait for Ada to join them. Something is wrong; she can sense it like a pungent odor.

Under ordinary circumstances, she wouldn’t hesitate to make demands on what Lexa is thinking. She would push and pry until Lexa eventually relented and shared her inner worries and reservations about the blood transfusion, or about any of it. After so many years of navigating their differences, Clarke is well versed in Lexa’s uncertainties.

As things are very far from ordinary, Clarke sits quietly pushing food around her plate and feeling increasingly worse. An hour ago, she’d been famished and now can hardly stomach a soft, buttered roll. She can’t push Lexa to open up—not when she’s only just woken from a prolonged unconsciousness and has hardly recovered—but the weighted silence between them is almost unbearable.   

“The blood transfusions would affect only certain components of your blood,” Clarke offers gently. “It wouldn’t entirely erase the essence of blackblood, Lexa.”

Lexa has been eating steadily, taking these delicate bites of food and chewing silently while Clarke sits in turmoil. She pauses as Clarke speaks but does not look up as she says, “We should wait to discuss this further until Anya has returned with Ada.”

Her measured response is worse than the silence, and Clarke finally discards her plate to the table in frustration. Her silverware clatters against its surface as she exhales noisily, and finally, Lexa looks over at her.

“Do you not care for the food?” she asks in genuine confusion, and Clarke has to wonder if that fever didn’t do more lasting damage on her brain than Clarke had originally assessed.  

“If you’re against the procedure then why did you sanction the research in the first place? And why have me state my case to Ada if you’re just going to reject my suggestions for treatment?” she blurts out despite herself.

Lexa’s confusion fades to a mild frown. “I have not reached any conclusions about this newest development, Clarke, least of all outright rejection.” She sighs, settling her own plate beside Clarke’s, albeit much more gracefully. “You know that I have struggled to navigate the influence of your scientific methods alongside my own truths.”

“We don’t have to be at odds on this. Your beliefs about the role of Nightbloods shouldn’t make their premature deaths a self-fulfilling prophecy. Not when there are now other options on the table. Don’t you think this is what Pramheda would have wanted for the Nightbloods? For you to survive?”

“It is what I intend to discuss with Ada, whose history with Heda and Natblida alike has long surpassed my own understandings.” Lexa sighs a second time. She slowly extends a hand in Clarke’s direction, who willingly slides their fingers together and feels instantly more at ease. “I asked you to stay and speak with Ada not because I wish to discredit your theory, but because I believe there is no one better to explain it than you.”

Clarke takes a cleansing breath and relaxes further into the sofa cushions. She is exhausted, her hunger pangs resurging as her anxieties settle. “How are you really feeling? Be honest. You just experienced a pretty major episode.”

“I am feeling much better. The food is certainly helping.”

“That’s good.” Clarke offers a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry for interrupting your meal.”

Lexa returns her small smile, putting Clarke further at ease. “There are many aspects at odds in this equation, Clarke, not least of which is my selfish desire to spend more time with you.”

Clarke’s smile brightens even as her eyes water. She squeezes Lexa’s fingers. “Lexa, you’re allowed to want—”

“Not this time. Heda must consider the benefits and well-being of her people above all else.”

“ _You_ are what’s best for these people.”

Lexa doesn’t respond, though Clarke can see so much left unsaid still warring in her eyes. Clarke forces a smile, granting them both permission to return to their food. “Let’s eat,” she says. “It’s getting cold.”

:::

The following day, Clarke finds herself racing back to the medical facility in hopes of finding either her mother or Raven. Ideally, both will be there already working, though the hour is still early and Raven has never been terribly productive before breakfast. Her mother, at least, should be easy enough to locate.

Clarke had intended to return the night previous, but meeting with Ada and Lexa had been … tiresome. They engaged in conversation that at times felt circuitous for all their conflicting perspectives. In the end, Lexa required sleep more than she needed answers, and they called it a night. Clarke had fallen asleep in the Commander’s now-familiar bed with her thoughts racing but her body pleased to finally be at rest.

Even as the sun broke through the shadows of the bedroom, Lexa was slower to rise while Clarke hurried to dress and make her way back to the lab. Lexa's body still needs time to heal; Clarke doesn’t want to think about the notion of her getting worse.

“I’ll be back in a bit,” she had said in parting, stopping herself from also begging: _Please don’t go anywhere. Please don’t do too much. Please be okay until I return._

Unable to locate her mother or Raven, Clarke is restless in the lab after twenty minutes. She paces around the tables and flips through the journals again, hoping to find some indication that the research team had also considered blood transfusions. Somehow she believes that even a sliver of evidence about the first Commander’s intentions will help Lexa be more easily convinced. In truth, this development is going to be a hard pill for her to swallow under any circumstances, and Clarke wills her patience to withstand Lexa’s doubts.

“Hey.”

She almost cries in relief at the casual sound of Raven’s voice. “Thank god, you’re finally here.”

“What do you mean _finally_? Sunrise was like an hour ago—I’m barely awake right now,” Raven grumbles.

“Did you see my mom on your way in? We need to go find her.” Clarke scrambles off the stool where she had momentarily been perched and heads for the door, causing Raven to spin in a slow circle of confusion.

“What’s going on, Clarke? You’re suspiciously energized for this time of day. Did something happen?”

“Something is about to happen—something big.” Clarke curls a hand around Raven’s upper arm so that she stumbles into stride with her as they leave the lab. “I need both you and my mom in the same place to hear it because I don’t have time to explain it twice.”

They make it as far as the laboratory doorway before Raven gasps, “Oh my god—are you pregnant?!”

:::

“An allogeneic transplant,” Abby says thoughtfully. “You’re talking about using stem cells, Clarke.”

“Yes.” Clarke’s heart thumps anxiously. “Have you ever done it?”

Her mother sighs. They’ve huddled in an empty bay of the medical facility, Raven and Clarke having intercepted Abby in the middle of doing her morning rounds with patients. “We had very different technology on the Ark, and even then, the procedure was fairly uncommon. Honestly, Clarke, I’m not sure how I would be able to replicate the process without extensive—”

“But, you’ve done it,” Clarke presses.

“Yes,” Abby sighs again. “I’ve done it.”

Raven chimes in just as Clarke can feel a fresh wave of hope crash over her. “Okay but, assuming this actually works—and honestly, this still sounds like one hell of a long shot—how are you going to get any of the Grounders to agree to a procedure that essentially _changes_ the composition of what they consider to be sacred blood?”

“Lexa’s not ready to sign off on it … yet,” Clarke admits. “But, she’s not completely opposed to it either. We just need to prove that it works. If she could see that it will save lives, she won’t be able to argue with that.”

“We don’t yet know if it will work,” Abby gently reminds her.

“It _will_ ,” Clarke snaps.

“Okay,” Raven interjects, attempting to diffuse Clarke's agitation. “What about Indius? Would she be willing?”

Clarke looks to her mother, who seems to hesitate uncomfortably. “We were forced to induce another coma last night—she remains unconscious for the time being while we figure out our next steps.”

“This is our next step,” Clarke insists. “It has to be. Mom, _please_.”

Abby looks sympathetic, if not equally hopeless. “Even if I agree to this, we don’t have a viable test subject. If not Lexa or Indius, then who?”

Exhaling in frustration, Clarke runs her fingers through her hair. “It’s the middle of Sadgeda fou—Polis is _crawling_ with Nightbloods.” Her mind claws for a solution that doesn’t directly conflict with Lexa’s wishes. “What if we … I mean, why can’t we just—”

“Sorry to interrupt—did I hear you’re looking for a rule-bending Natblida?”

Clarke’s head snaps to the familiar voice that rings out from the open doorway to her right. Lincoln stands there practically beaming at the three of them, and beside him—

“ _Luna_ ,” Clarke breathes. She rushes to them, wrapping her arms around Luna’s neck—the embrace of an old friend who has disappeared like a ghost only to resurface without warning. Clarke pulls back in a sudden panic, eyes flashing as she searches Luna’s dark features. “Are you okay? How are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” Luna grins. “Was sort of hoping you could help me out on that bit.”

Clarke chokes a laugh and feels a swell of emotion constricting her throat. Hope sputters back to life in her chest.

Indius is too unstable. Lexa’s uncertainties and her invaluable role to these people complicates her involvement. As leader of the known world, she is a dangerous candidate for their initial trial. Even in all her determination to see this through, Clarke can admit that. The same goes for Ontari, for that matter, and the remainder of the Natblida would understandably fall in line behind their Commander and their Queen.

But, Luna stands behind no one. Answers to no one. Having deserted her lineage ages ago, she functions outside of the Nightbloods’ preordained constructs. A cageless bird that flies in and out of ports at her whim. She is, without overstating it: the perfect solution. Clarke exhales in disbelief at their sudden luck.

“Do you even know what we’d be asking you to do?” she asks.

Luna shrugs in that easy, unbridled way of hers. “Apart from kissing Titus, I’ll do just about anything to finally start feeling better.”

Hope further blooms in Clarke’s chest and she smiles broadly. She hugs Luna again, this time out of relief and gratitude and not merely from the shock of seeing her after so much time. “Thank you,” she whispers and feels Luna’s grip tighten just once around her waist.

:::

Their luck continues as they discover that Lincoln is a match for his sister, and he easily agrees to participate in the transplant. Clarke is hardly surprised at his selfless cooperation—he is, without contest, the kindest person she has ever known. Abby takes some additional convincing, but her reluctance is no match for Clarke’s stringent resolve.

“Clarke, is this about Lexa?” This time when her mother questions her true motivations, just as she had when Clarke was merely a tetchy adolescent, she answers without hesitation.

“Yes.” It was about Lexa then, and it’s about her still.                

Abby concedes her support without further prodding after that, and Clarke allows the satisfaction of her mother’s cooperation to override her nerves. She has essentially revealed feelings to her mother that she has yet to admit to herself, but that is a mountain of emotions to process on another day.

For now, she must face the biggest challenge of all: informing Lexa of their plan set in motion.

Fifteen-year-old Clarke would have barrelled on with the procedure right then and there, Lexa’s apprehensions be damned. She absently considers the merits of her impetuous youth even as she approaches a set of doors behind which she knows Lexa sits. Taking a deep breath, Clarke pushes into the room, resigned to doing things the right way for once.

She finds Lexa engaged with a gaggle of Natblida in the same sun-drenched training room where Clarke had first encountered her upon her return to Polis. Today, it’s warmed by crackling fires as the windows, which once offered summer breezes, have since been sealed for the winter.

Lexa notices her immediately this time, looking up from where six or seven of the smallest Nightbloods have been clamoring for her attention. Clarke can tell that Lexa has been smiling already—her eyes warmed by the affection she holds for these children—but something in her face shifts as their eyes meet. Clarke can feel it from across the room just like the heat from the fireplaces. It’s a look meant just for her, a curve to Lexa’s mouth that she could sketch from memory a hundred years from now.   

Lexa gently commands the Natblida to attention then directs them to greet their guest.

“Hello, Clarke,” she says, and a trailing echo of _hiya_ and _hei_ follows as Clarke approaches their small gathering.

“Hi,” Clarke smiles at Lexa and all of the bright, earnest faces that peer up at her. “Sorry for interrupting. I was hoping I could speak with you.”

“We are nearing the end of our lesson. Would you care to join us for the remainder?”

At least four of the children’s smiles seem to light up at the suggestion, and if Clarke weren’t already ensnared by Lexa’s charm then she is certainly wooed by these eager Natblida. “Sure.”

As she sits cross-legged among them and listens, her mind drifts in and out of focus. Her research begins and ends with Lexa, but it is also composed of so much more than the life and death of one person. Her eyes flit across these beaming faces—hopeful, attentive, enamored. Her work is as much about them as all the other Natblida she met throughout her travels.

She had prepared an emotionally-charged speech to garner Lexa’s support; but, all the convincing she needs sits right at her feet. Clarke shifts suddenly with purpose. “Actually, can you excuse me for a minute?”

“Is everything alright?” Lexa asks.

“Yeah, yeah. I just remembered that I left something in my room that I wanted you to see. I’ll just be a minute.” Lexa smiles and nods as Clarke hops to her feet. “Thanks for letting me crash your lessons, you guys. Don’t let Heda make you work too hard.”

She throws an exaggerated wink to the little ones, who sit at Lexa’s feet. The Natblida stifle their giggles and squirm against the quilted blanket on which they sit while Lexa subtly clears her throat and catches Clarke’s eye. Clarke smirks in response, delighted to have defied Heda’s authority before darting towards the doorway.  

:::

When she returns, the room has emptied, and Lexa stands facing the windows. Clarke pauses for a moment to observe her. She is a graceful presence, softly illuminated by the midday sun. Clarke wonders how often she is granted these small pockets of quiet solitude.

 _Not enough_ , she thinks.

Lexa is already turning towards her even as Clarke approaches with a smile, and then is rewarded by an unexpected kiss. The press of Lexa’s lips against her own is so seamless, so natural, that Clarke hardly has time to react—stunned by Lexa’s affections in a public space.

“Hi,” she breathes out as they separate. Lexa is grinning with pride that she has managed to surprise her, and Clarke can’t stop her own smile from spreading. “That was nice.”   

“I am happy to see you.”

“I’m happy to see you, too,” Clarke agrees, momentarily distracted by Lexa’s mouth. She is seconds away from resuming their closeness for more soft kisses when Lexa notices the book in her hands.

“Is this what you wished to show me?”

“Oh. Um, yeah. Should we sit?”

Lexa ghosts a hand to the small of Clarke’s back, gesturing with her other hand towards a collection of chairs and footstools in front of one of the blazing fireplaces. They take seats on separate chairs, angled towards each other so that their knees almost touch. Clarke takes a deep breath, palms laid flat against the fabric cover of her sketchbook.

“Here,” she says, handing it over to Lexa. No preamble, no prepared speeches.

“What is it?”

“Just … open it.”

Lexa carefully complies, opening the hard-covered book that is worn and fraying at its corners. The first page reveals a charcoal portrait of a young boy, and she looks up with questioning eyes to meet Clarke’s expectant gaze.  

“Abed. He trains in a Floukru city just south of the Cape, across the bay.”

“Natblida?”

Clarke smiles warmly and nods as Lexa’s gaze drops back to the page. She wants to give Lexa this moment—to fully absorb what she so desperately wishes to communicate through her art. But as Lexa’s keen eyes glide across the page and the silence stretches, Clarke’s nerves take flight.

She has never been great at keeping quiet for long intervals anyway.

“In training with the Floukru fisa, we were always encouraged to keep records of our studies in this way—sketching plant life, sea creatures, anything really. Lincoln has an incredible talent for it. We used the drawings as a way to document our work. It only seemed natural to carry out my record keeping in a similar way as we began to study the Natblida, but then,” Clarke sighs, looking at the face of a boy she hardly knows. “I don’t know, it became so much more than that.”

Lexa briefly meets her eye but does not respond, a thoughtful musing shadowing her face before she returns to the book and carefully flips the page. Clarke smiles, remembering the portrait. A very small girl with large, dark eyes and plump cheeks, smiles up at them from the page. Getting her to sit still for more than 45 seconds had been its own unique challenge.

“How many?” Lexa says softly, her eyes still on the page.

Clarke recalls the number without hesitation. “Seventy-four.”

Wide, green eyes, flecked in disbelief meet Clarke’s as Lexa slowly opens her mouth to respond. “You drew them all?”

“Yes. And not just for the research.” She looks back to the young girl’s face. “Maybe it started out that way but … these are people. Some of them still incredibly young and innocent with their whole lives left to experience, but it’s being eclipsed by this—” Clarke sighs again, and looks up from the page to see Lexa watching her.

“You have brought me more than just this book.”

“Yes.”

“You bring me news of your work?”

Clarke swallows. Better to get on with it. “Luna is here.”

Lexa seems to shutter behind the veil of Heda momentarily. “Yes. The ships on which she is employed came into port this morning. I assumed she was aboard.”

“She’s agreed to participate in the trial. She’s willing to try the procedure, and Lincoln is a match. We could actually make this happen, Lexa. The answers we’re looking for are so close. If you could just—”

“I would like to be there,” Lexa states formally, seemingly working to steel herself. “For the procedure.”

“You—what are you saying?” Clarke blinks, heart hammering.

When Lexa looks at her again, she has softened around all of her hard edges. She looks less like the impassive Commander making a proclamation and more like the girl who has reshaped Clarke’s understanding of what it means to love.

“I cannot be sure that this is what Pramheda and those who led before me would have envisioned for Natblida, nor can I predict the effects that such drastic measures will have on our way of life.” She looks to the portrait of the girl and then back to Clarke, who has unconsciously held her breath. “But, I know that I was born to survive more than the blood in my veins, and I am not ready to give up my life just yet.”

A tearful smile breaks over Clarke’s face as she bridges the space between them and clambers gracelessly into Lexa’s lap, forcing her to jostle the sketchbook to keep it from falling to the floor. Clarke hugs her closely, lips finding their way to Lexa’s temple and the shell of her ear before making contact with her mouth.

With the temperatures falling considerably in Polis, Lexa now wears a long overcoat, but Clarke’s hands find their way beneath it to be closer to her still. “You know, I don’t have any idea what I’m doing either—I just knew that I had to do _something_.” Clarke exhales, eyes closed softly as her forehead rests against Lexa’s, her hands sliding around Lexa’s ribcage.

“You have always sought to help people, whether or not they were willing to accept it,” Lexa smiles, kissing Clarke again despite her light laughter. “You are quite admirable, Clarke of the ground and sky.”

Clarke’s eyes open at the softly spoken epithet, her mouth somewhat gaping to hear Lexa speak of her this way. “Lexa …”

“I think you will become an inspiration for our people for many years to come.”

“I’m just a healer,” Clarke tries to demure, shaking her head at the effusive doting.

Lexa reaches up with a smile to move stray hair from Clarke’s face. “You have always been more, Clarke. I do not think I am the only one to hold this opinion of you.”

“If anyone is going to inspire future generations of Grounders—I think we both know it’s going to be you, not me,” Clarke smiles.

Lexa leans in to kiss her again, separating their mouths by a breath before saying, “Perhaps they will remember us both fondly.”  

_I love you._

Clarke blinks.

_I love you._

The words are like a steady, thumping beat against her chest.

_I love you._

Her throat constricts as she licks her lips, holding Lexa’s gaze. The affection there is completely unmasked—Lexa so clearly feels the same way. Clarke doesn’t understand why the words feel so heavy on her tongue.

“May I hold onto these for awhile?”

“Huh?” Clarke blinks again and only then does she realize that Lexa has raised the book of Natblida sketches into their peripheral. “Of course,” she says. And then, in lieu of the reverberating sentiment pulsing in her veins, she tells Lexa, “They’re yours to keep.”

:::

In three days’ time, the stem cell transplant is set to happen. Abby is so diligent and precise in their preparations that for once Clarke doesn’t stop to question her methods or demand more of her efforts. This has to work—they have no alternatives—and Clarke puts her trust in her mother’s skill implicitly. They’ve taken plenty of samples and run endless tests. They’ve checked for errors and tried to account for every outcome. The only thing left to do is the procedure itself.  

“Are you feeling ready for this?” she sits at Luna’s bedside in a private sector of the medical facility. The room is small and warm; Lincoln is being prepped in the room adjacent.

“It is not the first time I have stared down the prospect of death, Clarke.” Luna looks tired, her voice scratched and worn, but she wears her trademark grin.

The preliminary conditioning for the procedure required Luna’s body to undergo some level of strain—weakening an already weakened immune system. Clarke refuses to acknowledge the possibility of an unsuccessful transplant, but she does worry for Luna’s health if things don’t go as planned.

She shakes the negativity from her head and returns Luna’s smile. “This is going to work. I know it.”

“I have nothing left to lose even if it does not. If I cannot be saved by the blood of my brother, I will be no worse off than I lay here now. I have lived a good life.”

“Luna—”

“Relax, Clarke. No matter the outcome here, you have done well. And, I am thankful for your persistence.”

Clarke’s smile turns watery as she reaches for Luna’s hand and squeezes briefly in response. They wait for the Commander’s arrival, and Clarke feels restless in the downtime. “I’m going to check on your brother. I’ll be right back, okay?”

Luna nods as Clarke stands, making her way to the door just as it swings open to reveal Gustus’ massive, looming figure. Clarke smiles up at him. Her initial trepidations about his sheer size and gruff demeanor have long since been erased by Lexa’s adoring stories of him toting her around as a child. His presence is a clear announcement of Lexa’s arrival, and Clarke’s eyes are instantly sliding around his hulking frame in search of her.  

She stands in conversation with Clarke’s mother near Lincoln’s hospital bed, her face somber and attentive as Abby carefully explains various aspects of the procedure. Lexa nods once as Abby finishes speaking and immediately approaches the doorway where Clarke is still stood.

“Hei. How are you feeling?” Clarke’s greeting is quickly followed by her hand sliding around Lexa’s wrist out of habit.

They are positioned in such a way that the intimate gesture is secluded from curious eyes, save for Gustus, though Clarke still retracts her hand after a brief calculation of Lexa’s pulse.

“I am well. I did not wish to keep you waiting, but there were matters that required my direction.”

“No, it’s fine,” Clarke assures. “I was on my way to check in with my mom, actually. I think we’re about ready to begin.” She casts a glance at Luna over her shoulder before returning her gaze to Lexa. “Can you give me a minute?”

“I am capable of greeting my sister without your supervision,” Lexa says, an eyebrow arched in feigned superiority.

“She’s about to undergo a major procedure that could save your life. Be _civil_.” Clarke cocks her own eyebrow in rebuttal, and the mighty Commander of the Kyongedon hides her amusement about as well as she hides her affection.

Gustus lords over them both, casting their hushed exchange into shadows between the two rooms. When Lexa moves past Clarke without another word, she brushes her fingers across the back of Clarke’s hand. The gesture swoops low in Clarke’s belly, and she watches Lexa approach Luna’s bed while taking a breath to calm her nerves. When she looks back to Gustus, he is also watching the two with a fond glint in his dark eyes and Clarke feels herself relax. They share a brief smile in which Gustus nods, and Clarke heads off to confer with her mother with a buoyant optimism in her step.  

:::

When it’s all over, Clarke hugs her mother. She hugs Raven and kisses the top of Lincoln’s head. Her eyes are full of tears and her heart hammers anxiously as they wait for any indication that the transplant has started to rebuild healthy cells in Luna’s blood. It will be a long wait—at least 5 days and up to a week—but Clarke is happy and relieved as she again sits beside Luna’s bed, feeling hopeful.

“You’ll have to stay in Polis for regular observations for the next few weeks. Are you sure you’ll be able to stay put for that long of a stretch?”

“There are worse things to endure than being stationary for a time.”

“And the Floudonkru trade ships won’t be rudderless in your absence?”

Luna shrugs with a smile at Clarke’s light teasing. “I suppose we shall see.”

“What else can I get for you?” Clarke sighs. “More water? Do you feel hungry yet?”

“You don’t need to sit here all day,” Luna tells her, sounding tired but contented. “I’m sure you have other things to do, others you are eager to see.”

Lexa has since returned to the Tower where her countless duties await her, but Clarke’s priorities as fisa keep her tethered to the lab. Her mind tends to drift and sometimes lingers on the Commander’s wellbeing, as it often does, but Clarke is also dedicated to the success of Luna’s recovery.

“I—don’t,” she all but stutters because it’s not hard to catch onto Luna’s insinuations. Her teasing smile in response to Clarke’s weak answer further blushes her cheeks with embarrassment. “I want to be here,” she says more firmly.  

A long beat of silence passes between them in which Luna continues to grin at Clarke the way she always has, watching in amusement as she uselessly smooths the linens and blankets of the hospital bed.

But then she says, “It looks good on you, by the way.”

Clarke looks up sharply and swallows past her unease. “What?”

“Love.”

Clarke gapes in the face of Luna’s easy, warm smile and her tired eyes. “I’m—”

“I am relieved that the pair of you finally managed to figure it out—been quite tragic to watch the prolonged discovery, if I’m being honest.”

“I—how can you—” Clarke’s words vanish as she stops to huff ineffectively at Luna’s offhanded musings about her personal life.

“I have eyes, Clarke,” Luna all but laughs. “You and Lexa were not a difficult puzzle to solve.”

“Luna—”

Her hand gently covers Clarke’s along the bed linens to stop her spluttering. “I do not need conclusive test results to know that you have saved my life, Clarke. Now go save hers.”

:::

Saving Lexa’s life will be the death of her.

“You can’t be serious right now.”

“It is important to me that the other Natblida are treated first, Clarke. I must prioritize their wellbeing over my own. I will be fine, I promise.”

The argument is certainly mild by their standards, but Clarke is no less annoyed at Lexa’s stubborn resolve. Just three days since their first successful transplant, and Luna’s blood work has already begun to show premature signs of new growth and healthy cells. Abby is dumbfounded by the rapid progress, Clarke is elated, and Lexa remains a stubborn ass.

“Lexa, no—”

“Please, Clarke. I trust you with their lives, knowing you will help to save them. You must trust that I am capable of this.”

Clarke folds her arms in practiced petulance and scowls up at Lexa where she stands above her in the sitting area of her bedroom. “What—obstinate martyrdom?”

“Survival.”

Sometimes, Clarke thinks they may as well be fifteen and sat in a boxcar—still struggling against the same, goddamn impasse. Of course there exist tectonic shifts between then and now, not least of which is their physical affections that she will always fight to keep.

(Even if it means swallowing her frustrations and bending to Heda’s ridiculously selfless demands.)

Lexa extends her hand to Clarke with a tempered sigh. They have been going round and round since Clarke had returned to the Tower, practically bubbling over from the good news and ready to admit Lexa to the medical facility for her own transplant as soon as possible.

Lexa, of course, has other plans.

Begrudgingly, Clarke takes her hand and allows Lexa’s subtle tugging to pull her from the blue settee. It has been another long day for them both, and Lexa more than likely is ready for sleep.

“We’re not done talking about this,” Clarke says, though her demanding tone is noticeably weakened by Lexa’s gentle proximity.

“Your work will be most effective if you are able to treat Natblida throughout the events of Sadgeda fou—soon they will again be far-flung across the territories. For now, they are concentrated here. It is more efficient this way.”

“Your resolute pragmatism isn’t helping,” Clarke pouts, leaning into Lexa’s frame anyway.

Lexa’s voice is soft and warm. “Come to bed.”

If she weren’t so sullen and defeated, Clarke would swoon at the request.

“I know you’ve been feeling better, but you’re still …  dying,” she says, swallowing thickly. “I’m allowed to be worried.”

Lexa has the audacity to kiss her, slide warm fingers into her hair, and rest their foreheads together. “We are all in a race towards death, Clarke,” she says softly. “I am merely winning.”

Clarke jabs a finger into Lexa’s side and her frown deepens. “Don’t joke.”

“I think you would agree that I am too stubborn to die,” Lexa says with a teasing smile, kissing Clarke again despite her frown. “Beja, come to bed.”

Brooding or not, Clarke doesn’t need to be asked again.

:::

Luna.

Beth.

Aden.

Jerai.

Maia, Zara.

And then:

“Lexa.”

She steps away from the frosted window pane at the sound of Clarke’s voice. The Commander is dressed down in soft, loose clothing, no trappings or weapons. She looks at Clarke calmly, hands held loosely at her back as they so often are when Lexa is determined to hold herself together.

“It’s time,” Clarke says gently. Lexa nods.

Clarke has seen to the recovery of each Natblida that hails from TonDC, save one. There has been a distinct sense of relief at seeing their familiar faces and knowing she has played a part in ensuring their survival. She and her mother and their team of brilliant medical advisors—from Nyko to Lincoln and countless different fisa apprentices in between—have performed successful transplants on over sixty Nightbloods to date.

By the conclusion of the Sadgeda fou competitions, they had treated every Nightblood within the city limits. Ontari included, and Indius too. Those who have undergone the procedure continue to progress at varying degrees and there will be much more work to be done, but Clarke is done waiting for Lexa’s cooperation. She is unwilling to take _no_ , or _not yet_ for an answer any longer.

“I’ll be with you the whole time,” she reassures, and Lexa nods again.

They make their way through the emptied halls of the medical wing, parallel echoes bouncing off the walls from their matching strides in well-worn boots. Clarke had asked her mother to provide a secluded space of the facility, knowing how much Lexa values what little privacy she is capable of keeping. Braziers have been lit along the corridor to mitigate the biting temperatures outside, but Clarke feels a chill that she can’t shake run down her spine. Ryder and Sarak linger somewhere behind them, and Gustus awaits them just outside the exam room. Anya stands there, too, though her role in this will soon have her in a bed of her own. Her blood had proved a match for Lexa, and Clarke further doubts that they are not _actually_ related by DNA after all.

“Ogud, Heda?” Anya smirks, as relaxed a tone as Clarke has ever heard from her. Maybe her mother has administered a preemptive sedative.

“No,” Lexa sighs. “But, I have been advised to cease from taking _sluggish steps_.”

She purposefully staggers over the idiom—always so dramatic—and Clarke rolls her eyes to Gustus’ subtle amusement. It feels a bit like an inner circle moment, standing among them and sharing some understated levity. Despite the massive implications of what they’re about to do, Clarke feels a lightness in her chest.

“What I said was: stop dragging your feet.”

“You have always been rather slow in your footwork,” Anya adds.

Clarke laughs lightly at Lexa’s unamused scowl.

Abby appears in the doorway then, interrupting their small cluster respectfully. “Anya, we’d like to get you prepped if you’re ready.”  

“I am ready,” she responds, reclaiming her serious demeanor as she looks to Lexa. Anya reaches up to gently clasp a hand against the side of Lexa’s neck like an affectionate older sibling. “It is time yet again for me to save your life, Sekon.”

Clarke watches as Lexa’s throat bobs in a rough swallow. “You did not have to do this.”

Anya very nearly smiles. “Sha. I did.”

Lexa squares her jaw and takes a fortifying breath as Anya releases her loose hold and follows Abby into an adjoining room. Clarke doesn’t even think twice, reaching down to grab Lexa’s hand who gladly clasps on tightly.

:::

She stands by Lexa’s bed while her mother makes their final preparations, scuttling between two rooms but with the controlled precision of a life-long surgeon. Focused and efficient. Having completed the retrieval of cells from Anya’s blood, beginning Lexa’s procedure is imminent. Gustus and Ryder are posted at the door, and Sarak positions herself just inside the small exam room. Anya recovers nearby under the watch of Nyko and Lincoln.

A flutter of nerves, heart pounding wildly, and a flash of sweat in the creases of her palms—Clarke takes a steadying breath and looks to Lexa. She is the picture of calm, never giving anything away in the face of an audience. Days ago, Lexa had placed the same caveat on the transplant as she had on the initial blood draw some weeks back: Clarke, and _only_ Clarke, would be permitted to perform the task of placing the needle to her skin. Leave it to Lexa to have waged numerous wars and brushed death by swords and poisoned arrows alike, only to maintain a childlike fear of small needles.

“Are you okay?” Clarke asks softly.

Lexa sits on the bed’s edge and reaches for one of Clarke’s anxious hands. “Miya.” She pulls Clarke forward by inches until she is stood between Lexa’s knees. “I am better now.”

Clarke sighs through a smile, finding a quiet strength from the soothing greens that swirl in Lexa’s eyes. They are far from alone, but it’s easy to pretend that they are while staring into the calming hues of Lexa’s soft gaze. She could be in TonDC, lost in a forest with a girl she barely knows. She can almost smell the yarrow flowers, the stench of a musty train car. She can feel that sticky, summer heat on her arms and legs. Lexa’s careful touch and nervous glances.

“Do you trust me?” she says.

Lexa smiles. Maybe she remembers, too. “Ai hod yu in.”

Clarke’s hand drops to Lexa’s thigh as her mouth falls open, pulse racing once again. She wills herself not to cry, but the emotion is already brimming there despite Clarke’s resolve. Lexa never falters—not when Clarke stands there clumsily processing the weight behind those words; not even when Clarke leans in hastily to kiss her. Gustus, Sarak, and Ryder momentarily forgotten, she feels everything else fall away. In so many ways, it is maybe as private as their lives will ever be. The outside world vanishes entirely as she pulls back and finds Lexa’s eyes slow to open.

“I love you, too,” Clarke rushes to say, the words leaving her chest in a whoosh of relief. “I’ve been trying to say that for days.”

Lexa raises her eyebrows with a smile. “Days only?”

“Probably longer,” Clarke laughs as her mother reenters the room with a cart of supplies.

She doesn’t stop for a second to consider creating some professional distance between herself and Lexa, certainly not in this moment of honesty. Even as she clocks the briefest flash of shock on her mother’s face at their unexpected intimacy, she maintains their closeness.

“Clarke,” Abby says delicately, coming to stand at the opposite side of the hospital bed. She exhales, extending the catheter that will bring new cells into Lexa’s veins. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Clarke looks back to Lexa with a question in her eyes, and Lexa nods. She then steps back to allow Lexa the space to recline along the bed. Clarke receives a tray with the necessary tools from her mother: tourniquet, strips of cloth, needle, and alcohol.

Once she has successfully entered the vein and secured the catheter, Clarke expels a long-held breath and looks towards her mother who will complete the rest of the procedure.

“You did great, honey.”

“Thanks. I’ll be standing right over there, okay?” Clarke says to Lexa, fingers brushing tenderly along her hairline.

Lexa’s singular nod is the only indication of her nerves, which Clarke desperately wishes to alleviate with another kiss. She refrains for the sake of her mother’s encroaching presence, settling instead for running her thumb across Lexa’s bottom lip before taking a step back from the bed.

“Clarke.” She has just turned around to to find a place to stand beside Gustus when Lexa speaks. Clarke spins to face her again at the sound of her name. “Tell me again.”

She approaches slowly, placing a hand onto Lexa’s leg out of habitual contact. “What?”

Lexa’s eyes cut to Abby indiscreetly, and she quickly clears her throat while moving away. “I’ll give you a moment.”

When Lexa’s gaze returns to Clarke, the vulnerability there makes her breathing grow shallow. Lexa’s voice has softened to barely a whisper. “Tell me that I will … tell me that I will still be myself.”

She doesn’t need to express her fears explicitly; Lexa’s apprehension has clouded the vibrant green of her wide eyes. Clarke moves closer to her without another thought. For all that she has struggled to reconcile her own beliefs with that of Lexa’s Natblida ideologies, Clarke has certainly spent countless hours studying the teachings and talking to Lexa about their significance. The reassurance comes to her in Trigedasleng just as Lexa had first spoken it to her.

“Yu jus laik yu kwelnes, but the blood in your veins doesn’t define you, Lexa. You are so much more than this _weakness_.” She places a hand against Lexa’s chest and can feel the rapid beating of her heart. “Tombom—your _heart_ is your strength.”

“Ai tombom laik ai uf,” Lexa repeats.

“Yes.”

Clarke can feel the compression of Lexa’s chest as she takes a cleansing breath, and her heart slows to a less rapid pace under Clarke’s fingertips.

“I am ready.”

“Okay,” Clarke smiles, eyes already glossed in unshed tears when she looks up to catch her mother’s expectant gaze. Clarke nods and Abby approaches the bed once again.

With a final squeeze to Lexa’s fingers, Clarke leaves the bedside to join Raven who has entered the room and stands in Sarak’s towering shadow along one wall. Raven takes her hand immediately, wordlessly notching their fingers together. The room is quiet, save for Abby’s movements and softly spoken explanations to Lexa. Clarke exhales shakily as she watches her mother work, then takes another deep breath to calm a racing pulse.

A warm hand comes to rest on her shoulder, and Clarke looks up to find Sarak smiling down at her. Returning her smile further relaxes Clarke’s nerves. As her attention again focuses on Lexa, Clarke feels her confidence return with a force. When Lexa catches her eye from across the room, Clarke’s smile is beaming.

:::

Lexa waits all of twenty-seven days before making plans to travel outside of Polis, and if Clarke is being honest with herself, she likely had plans in motion long before that. It’s another fifteen days before she returns from Ontari’s kingdom in the north, making it the longest stretch they’ve spent apart in over six month’s time. Needless to say, by the time Heda’s traveling party is announced at the gate, Clarke has absolutely no restraint left.

Sarak arrives to Polis Tower with the message, having ridden ahead of Lexa’s entourage to deliver it personally. “She will meet you in her chambers within the hour,” she says after locating Clarke near the kitchens where she has taken to snacking on samples of warm, fresh bread with Aasma.

Clarke’s flustered excitement must be written across her eyes because Aasma is laughing at her as she abandons their shared loaf of still-steaming bread and runs for the stairs. She’s paced the entire square footage of the Commander’s vast living space at least three times, growing increasingly impatient with every footstep, when she hears voices just outside the closed door—Lexa’s, most distinctly, rings in her ears as Clarke’s pulse trips into an anxious rhythm.

She is wrenching open the door a moment later, barely registering the way Lexa’s entire face lights up before crashing into her—hands and mouths and unbridled desperation. She drags Lexa across the threshold, wondering if they’ll even make it to the bed before she has Lexa panting beneath her. The chair near the fireplace has certainly worked out well in the past. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Clarke dismisses Sarak’s presence outside the door as irrelevant. She has certainly seen similar displays between them in the past—has potentially _heard_ even worse, though Clarke tries not to think of that as her lips and tongue reacquaint with the taste and feel of Lexa’s mouth.

Lexa mumbles something against her lips, but Clarke cannot fathom words in any language at the moment because Lexa’s hair is woven between her fingers and her body is warm and solid against her for the first time in over two weeks.

“Bath.” Lexa’s voice is more distinct this time, though the word makes little sense as her hands brace against Clarke’s hips to keep her from pressing any closer.

A different, yet not unfamiliar voice greets her then, and finally the haze of want and desperation begins to ebb from Clarke’s senses. “Hei, Clarke.”

“Uh—hei. Hi.” Clarke clears her throat, cheeks burning as Aasma brushes past them into the room with a bucket of water. She is followed by three others—all hoisting their own buckets and equally avoiding eye contact.

“I’ve asked Aasma to prepare a bath,” Lexa explains.

“Oh,” Clarke responds quietly just before pressing her lips together in humiliation, all of which Lexa seems to fully enjoy as she smiles without restraint.

“You couldn’t have warned me?” Clarke whispers harshly when they have all filed past into the room.

Lexa raises that lethal eyebrow, and Clarke’s mouth runs dry. “You were rather preoccupied, no?”

“Yeah well, ‘meet me in my _bedroom_ ’ carries certain implications. You’re lucky I was even wearing clothes.”

Any trace of smug arrogance falls away in an instant—Lexa looks like she might be picturing that very scenario with how dark her eyes have gone. She swallows harshly a moment later as if to keep composure; Clarke feels a bit vindicated for being so eager.

:::

Wafting steam turns to dense clouds that hang above the claw-foot tub, and the room is kept warm by a crackling fire. Languid kisses and slow-roaming hands are the residual effects of long-awaited orgasms—once on the bed and again in the tub. Clarke is still recovering if not also planning for more once they have had a long enough soak. From the glint in Lexa’s eyes, it could be a delightfully exhaustive evening.

She straddles Lexa’s lap while strong hands massage her hips and thighs. Clarke needs not only to feel Lexa’s presence but to see her also. Distance, it could be said, has made her irrevocably fond.

“How was it?”

Clarke means the kingdom of northern cities over which Ontari presides and where Lexa has just spent the past week negotiating new treaties. She means the experience of seeing lands that are still under reconstruction and rebirth after Nia’s torturous rein. She means the long travel and the decisions that the Commander has reached about the future of her people.

But, Lexa can be terribly reductive when she chooses to be avoidant of her authoritative status.

“Cold,” Lexa answers against her lips.

Clarke indulges her avoidance with a smile that is quickly followed by another kiss, soft and slow. She shifts her hips and Lexa’s fingers flex against her skin.

“Okay, but you got to see snow. It never snows this far south.”

“Yes. The snow was also very cold.”

Clarke’s smile turns to light laughter that she breathes into Lexa’s shoulder and the warmth of her neck. She places several kisses there, under her jaw and below her ear, until she can hear Lexa’s breath catch from the sensation.

“I’d like to see it someday. The snow,” she clarifies, sitting back to see Lexa’s reaction.

Her face is so calm, so content. It is not the face of her people—their fearless Commander, their stalwart warrior, their unbreakable leader. They do not know this face. As someone who gets the distinct privilege of seeing both sides, Clarke is struck by the contrast. This is a woman at peace, a woman in love. The colors dancing in her eyes under firelight are for Clarke alone.

“I will take you there. To see the snow.”

Clarke’s smile widens just so. “Will you?”

“Yes,” Lexa says, like breathing a promise. “Someday.”

:::

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This whole thing has been such a wildly enjoyable ride. Thank you for coming along. One more to go.


	4. The Law of Inertia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a moment, she indulges in the sensation of Clarke’s body beneath her, solid and warm. She has known a harsher life. Fear, danger, and death once occupied her thoughts. Keeping Clarke wrapped in her linens during a blissful, sun-drenched afternoon is not a reality Lexa ever allowed herself to imagine. She had prepared for struggle and survival, for leadership. A life of endurance. She trained, studied, and strategized for the safety of her people. She prepared to accept an early death with grace; she did not ever plan for a thing like Clarke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Law of Inertia: the momentum of an object is constant unless an outside force acts on the object; any object either remains at rest or continues uniform motion unless acted on by a force.

**_Spring_ **

Sometimes, she forgets.

Many seasons have since passed, but it will take the blunt force of Aden’s training swords breaking her skin for Lexa to remember: her blood is no longer black.

Clarke likes to tell her that it is. She will say that it is nearly as dark as it had been. Or that it is, at the very least, not the bright red of her own blood. She likes to assure Lexa of the visible distinction that still exists for Natblida.

Aden says that the sight of it after an injury or during a routine medical procedure no longer startles him. Now at fifteen winters, he has fully adjusted and appears unbothered by the change. It suits his demeanor to remain so unaffected.

Unsurprisingly, Anya enjoys provoking her. During their routine sparring matches, she has been known to goad Lexa that her footwork should have shown improvement now that she has Anya’s blood coursing through her veins.

In any case, Lexa’s blood is no longer a hue that she recognizes as her own. It has never before mattered—she was not raised to place any measure of importance on its dark and distinctive color. While Lexa can be grateful for her continued survival, she also registers the discomfort of something forever lost.

“What the hell happened?” Clarke rushes into the room and is at her side in an instant, fraught with unnecessary concern for Lexa’s safety.

She smiles at Clarke’s worried frown, nevertheless relaxing under the warm hands that have taken her injured arm into their careful grasp. Another fisa has already cleaned and wrapped the subtle wound along her forearm, but she can sense that Clarke is resisting an urge to remove the bandage and inspect the damage herself.

“Minor scrapes. Aden is not the small boy he once was.”

Clarke’s eyes snap up in surprise. Her tone is somewhere between utterly impressed and amused. “Aden did this?”

“I suspect he has been training with Anya behind my back.”

“Why didn’t you have someone come find me?” Clarke asks after a fleeting smile. Her fingers gently touch the cloth bandaging. “I would have done this for you.”

“You are always quite busy in your laboratory.”

“I’m never too busy for _you_ ,” Clarke argues softly.

The miraculous success of Clarke’s efforts into curing Natblida has only grown—those with black blood continue to flock to Polis from abroad for treatments. Clarke and her mother and their team work tirelessly, keeping meticulous logs of their progress as they refine their research. They have treated hundreds to date, perhaps more. Lexa does not pretend to be unimpressed by how many lives have been spared thanks to Clarke’s persistence and determination.  

“Still, I do not like to interrupt Wanheda’s work.”

This erases Clarke’s worry entirely, replacing any lingering concern with a familiar look of annoyance. “Don’t call me that.”

Wanheda is a growing legend. She defeated an impossible threat.

Wanheda protected, saved, and changed the trajectory of Natblida lives.

Wanheda commands death.

Clarke _is_ Wanheda, whether she chooses to accept it or not. The Kyongedon have spoken her into existence.

“Our people honor you with this title, Clarke. It is not given lightly,” Lexa reminds her with a calming smile.

“Well, I hate it. It’s ridiculous.”

“Consent is not always necessary in order for legends to take flight.”

“Just because I’m helping to save lives doesn’t mean I’ve _conquered_ death,” Clarke scoffs. “You’re the Commander—can’t you put a stop to this kind of exaggerated folklore?”

Lexa pulls Clarke in closer by a hand to her waist. She kisses a smile against her cheek, and Clarke finally stops fidgeting with the bandage to place her hands on Lexa’s thighs. They relax into a familiar intimacy—the simple closeness that Lexa often craves while they spend their days apart.

“Wanheda’s narrative is a far-reaching tale, stretching up and down the coast and across our territories. I could not put an end to it now, even if I wanted to.”

“The bits and pieces I hear of their stories are embarrassingly inaccurate,” Clarke grumbles.

“Their intentions are sincere. The people are grateful.” Lexa softly runs her nose along Clarke’s cheek, smiling as she whispers, “I am grateful as well.”

Finally, a short laugh. Clarke’s hands slide onto Lexa’s shoulders just before her lips seek out contact with Lexa’s own. “Oh yeah?”

Lexa hums. They kiss once, twice; the third press of Clarke’s mouth lingers. Lexa feels a flush of warmth and excitement just as she does each time they find themselves stealing these private moments in public spaces. The laboratory after-hours. Shadowed corridors of Polis Tower. Hushed and vacant corners of the open market in bright sunshine.

Clarke’s apprehension to accept her title does not belittle her accomplishment. She has not just granted Lexa her continued health, but time. Time to heal, time to work and learn and grow as a leader. Selfishly, Lexa is grateful for the added moments she now has to spend with Clarke most of all. Days, weeks, and months—often innocuous and insignificant—that continue to stack up into something far more valuable over time. Even this small pocket of time in the healing ward, Lexa savors.

Despite the length of their relationship, already several consecutive seasons, Lexa’s head still swirls—a clouded confusion from Clarke’s sharp, blue eyes and parted lips as their heated kiss finally breaks. For a moment, they stand breathing the same air.

Clarke is still slotted loosely between her legs when Lexa asks, “Are you free right now?”

Lexa herself is not explicitly free from responsibilities. For Heda, there is always something to be done, somewhere else to be. A conversation to be had. A task that is never finished. But, in Clarke’s presence, Lexa’s world has always narrowed.

“Yes,” Clarke says, still breathless, as if a thought has just occurred to her. “Let’s go back to your room.”

Involuntarily, Lexa’s stomach jumps as a smile spreads across her lips. Her hands flex against Clarke’s waist, but she arches an eyebrow as if Clarke hasn’t just sent her head spinning. “I was going to suggest lunch in the market.”

“I’m sure we can make time for food, too,” Clarke laughs around another kiss, the sound of which has Lexa’s mind all but settled.

:::

Clarke is most docile in the afterglow—when they have finished exploring each other’s bodies, and she is sated and pliable under Lexa’s soft, roaming touch. The old texts preserved from the Ark often call this an act of _making love_. Lexa knows this expression to be inaccurate and untrue—she and Clarke’s love formed long before they were ever together in this way. This is simply the welcomed aftermath: an expression of the love that was already there.

Clarke curls around the various linens, half-draped and half-exposed to the cool, light breezes that flutter through Lexa’s open windows. She sighs as Lexa’s fingers still glide across patches of her warm skin, a contented exhale that tugs at Lexa’s affectionate smile.

“Now I don’t want to go back to work.” Her voice is more like a groan, and it sends shivers up Lexa’s bare arms.

The smile on Lexa’s face only grows. She leans down to kiss a narrow scar across Clarke’s shoulder blade—an injury she sustained on the Ark when she was quite small. Clarke had explained the injury somewhat vaguely—a young child hanging upside down from her bed frame in order to understand the sensation of blood loss. A physician’s child, Clarke had grown into an early curiosity about the inner workings of the body. It had been an experiment gone wrong, resulting instead in the scar across her shoulder blade.

Clarke has admitted to being a precocious and dangerously curious child. A willful yongon who was never far from trouble. Lexa enjoys thinking of her in this way—a miniature version of the headstrong girl she met at fifteen.

“Some of your most brilliant ideas are often painfully short-sighted,” Lexa tells her before placing a soft kiss to her shoulder cap, just above the faint scar tissue.

Clarke laughs but does not open her eyes. “Yes. My impulses tend to get the better of me when I’m around you.”

“I could say the same,” Lexa sighs, as if these midday trysts with Clarke are a habit she intends to break. In truth, she has long since surrendered to the questionable decisions she often makes on Clarke’s behalf. “Stay and rest. I will ask Aasma to fetch food from the kitchens.”

Clarke hums, but does not otherwise move. “Mmm, food.”

“I will be back.” Lexa slips from the bed in search of her robe as the brisk, afternoon breezes pebble her naked skin.

“I stand by my decision, by the way.”

Lexa slips her arms into the soft satin sleeves of her robe and turns towards the bed while tying off the sash. Her mouth slopes at Clarke’s lounging form. “You stand obstinately behind each of your choices, consequences usually be damned—would you care to be more specific?”

“ _Specifically_ ,” Clarke grins, rolling over onto her back and propping herself along the scattered pillows. Her eyes have finally opened, and Lexa’s heart trips in its rhythm. “I was referring to my brilliant decision to lure you into tawdry, afternoon sex instead of an innocent lunch in the marketplace.”

“I was lured, was I?”

“Not for the first time,” Clarke smirks.

Lexa’s answering smile is unrestrained. She leans across the bed, hovering above Clarke’s frame to find her lips already waiting.

For a moment, she indulges in the sensation of Clarke’s body beneath her, solid and warm. She has known a harsher life. Fear, danger, and death once occupied her thoughts. Keeping Clarke wrapped in her linens during a blissful, sun-drenched afternoon is not a reality Lexa ever allowed herself to imagine. She had prepared for struggle and survival, for leadership. A life of endurance. She trained, studied, and strategized for the safety of her people. She prepared to accept an early death with grace; she did not ever plan for a thing like Clarke.

Even now, these moments together often leave her on unsure footing, unable to fully process the reality of this life they are building. She brushes wisps of hair from Clarke’s face. If she lingers, it will not be long before Clarke’s wandering hands find their way beneath the silken robe.

“Nor will it be the last, I’m sure,” she concedes after a languid kiss.

“How the mighty have fallen,” Clarke taunts, and Lexa knows she is thinking of a reckless summer’s day from long ago—the nuances of which they have argued for years.

Her eyes watch the light reflect in Clarke’s eyes and the subtle curve of her lips. Lexa thinks of telling her: _I am not sure how to accept what this life has granted—you are something unimaginable that I did not expect._

Instead she says, “And yet, it appears that _you_ are the one unable to properly move your limbs.”

Lexa’s eyes gleam with silent laughter, her smile as bright as the afternoon sun, and Clarke scoffs. Her gaze looks like the threat of delightful retribution—as if she is already plotting her revenge on Lexa’s fortitude during their next encounter.

:::

In these times of protracted calm and quiet, Lexa’s days tend to blur. She spends hours listening to the needs and concerns of her people. She sits in council with her advisors—Marcus and Ada and Wells. Heda must also ensure that her military stay vigilant and prepared, and for that she has Indra, Anya, and Octavia. But in these peaceful times, so much of her gonakru have returned to their families as adversaries and unrest fall dormant.

It is tempting to foresee the clans and territories through a lens of this everlasting peace; nevertheless, Lexa has known loss. She has seen too much spite and destruction arise unexpectedly through war and bloodshed. She has played witness to death enough times to know that there will not always be tranquility coursing through her people as it does now.

Heda must continually take measures to preempt the inevitable, and thus Lexa has put a plan in motion.

“The delegation from the Azgedakru kingdom has accepted Heda’s invitation for the summit,” Marcus shares. “They make their way to us even as we speak.”

Lexa nods curtly in the direction of he and Wells, who sit at her left. Ada, Indra, and Anya sit along the opposite side of a long, hand-scraped table made from white pine. Among the more menial changes that Lexa has enacted over the past year, meetings of this sort are now held in a setting outside of the throne room.

She prefers this arrangement—a more intimate space just large enough for the table, her guests, and her guards. Attendees of various station and status often flank both sides while Lexa always sits at the head. The throne still has its time and purpose, but Lexa has begun to see it as something more symbolic rather than purely functional. It is an heirloom from her ancestors, a decorative display of Heda’s regal authority. But, it is also extremely uncomfortable and impractical if she is forced to sit for long intervals.

“When is the queen scheduled to arrive?” she asks to the table at large.

“We will meet the delegation at the city’s northern border in two days,” Indra answers. “Scouts have reported their caravan have already moved beyond the old territory border between Trikru land and Azgeda.”

Land maps continue to shift and evolve. Lexa’s vision for the future of her people, if nothing else, has kept the cartographers busy. Their world—which Lexa surmises is nothing more than a fraction of the world at large—is constantly evolving. She and Ontari have been amicable rulers from the start; the summit she has planned will serve as a platform to put their mutual proposal before the people.

“And the Floudonkru?” Lexa says, moving down her mental agenda with fingers steepled beneath her chin.

“The Captain made port first thing this morning.” Wells hesitates only slightly before adding, “She declined to attend this particular meeting but said you would know where to find her if necessary.”

 _Of course she did,_ Lexa internally scoffs.

Anya looks ready to throttle her own frustrations around someone’s throat, namely Luna’s. Lexa resists an urge to roll her eyes by folding her hands atop the table and clearing her throat.

“Mochof, Wells. Her attendance would have been unnecessary as it is. I won’t waste any more of your time here either. You each have excessive responsibilities to see to the success of this summit, and I am grateful for your service.”

“Sha, Heda,” Ada answers, her soft, certain voice a collective response for the rest of the table. “We meet again in two days’ time to commence our discussions of the summit in full.”

As Lexa stands, the meeting adjourns. Anya catches her elbow as they exit, and Lexa anticipates her low murmurings before Anya has even opened her mouth.

“Save your words,” Lexa tells her without much command. “It is not worth revisiting this conversation. My decision has been made.” The warning does nothing to ward off Anya’s commentary, and quite predictably, she barrels onward.

“She is unreliable and aloof—in no position to be granted power among your people at all let alone an equal share of the responsibility. You have said so yourself.”

“Wisdom cannot be obtained from a fixed mindset, Anya. And thus, my perspective on Luna has shifted.”

“But, the implications of this decision—”

“Our ancestors were destroyed by their inability to reshape political institutions and traditions. I do not wish for this generation, nor those to come, to suffer the same fate.”

Lexa takes a sharp right without allowing Anya to respond and cuts across her path so that she must stumble to avoid crashing into her. Lexa heads in the direction of the Tower’s front entrance. She longs for fresh air and sunshine—the voices of her people in market, carried along on the breeze. After so many years as Commander, she has still not adjusted to the sterile confines of the stone tower in which she spends so much of her time.

“What does Clarke think about your decision?” Anya falls back into stride with an imperceptible smirk as Lexa’s step falters at the question. “I am not disillusioned enough to think you’ve not already talked with her about this.”

“The matters that I choose to discuss with Clarke are of no concern to you.”

“I’m not chastising you for seeking her counsel, Heda. I am genuinely asking—what does she think?”

Lexa pauses with an imperceptible sigh, turning to squint at the afternoon sun as it breaks through cracks in the city buildings and the sparse clouds above. “Clarke encouraged the proposed division of power. She is understandably apprehensive of any change that could threaten our established peace, but she remains supportive.”

“It would not be the first time she has displayed poor judgement regarding your Floudonkru sister,” Anya mumbles spitefully while avoiding eye contact.

Lexa’s movements still and her glare falls on Anya sharply, a warning. To speak of Clarke in  this way is not tolerated, not even for someone as close to her as Anya. She won’t openly apologize for the overstep, Lexa knows, but Anya at least has the decency to bow her head in humble contrition.

“I trust Clarke. You know this to be true,” Anya says after another moment. She adjusts the weapons that hang at her waist. “Perhaps she would have been a better selection for leadership than Luna.”

They have paused beneath a small gathering of low-slung shade trees, their clusters of bright green buds nearly ready to burst into bloom. The season of growth has always been Lexa’s favorite—it is by no coincidence that it was within this season that she first met Clarke.

Lexa allows for the smallest upward tick of her lips at Anya’s suggestion. “Clarke’s determination clearly knows no bounds—her passion for others’ well-being is unbridled. In some ways, these qualities would lend themselves towards great leadership.” Lexa begins walking again, back out into the bright sunshine. “But she has no desire for a position of such prominence, not to mention very little experience to be an effective leader of this sort.”

“Not that you could ever tell _her_ that.”

Again, Lexa’s mouth shifts with the hint of a smile. “I think Clarke would be more interested in knowing that you favor her as a candidate for leadership above a trained Natblida who once vied for the mantle of Heda.”  

“Luna walked away. Like a coward.”

“She has her beliefs about achieving and maintaining peace,” Lexa counters lightly. “And she is principled enough to stand by them. Luna and I will always have our differences, but she offers a valuable shift in perspective—much like Ontari. I do not wish to rule beside leaders who are exact replicas of myself.”

“Then why invest so much time grooming Aden?”

“Clarke’s research on Natblida and her nomon’s medical expertise have certainly lengthened my life, and therefore my leadership. But, I do not plan to live forever.”

They walk farther into the city center, trailed unobtrusively by Sarak and Ryder and carving a wide path through the crowded streets of Polis.

“You still wish for him to succeed you as Heda.”

“Aden will make an excellent contender for Commander of these people.” Lexa nods at passersby as they offer waves and broad smiles for Heda and her striking General. “I have always said so.”

Anya seems to relinquish her argument for the time being as she and Lexa fall into an easy silence. The day is bright and warm, aromas of the earliest flora in bloom filling the air. It is a day that begs for long, leisurely horse rides or a walk along the waterfront.

“Are you headed in a particular direction or simply meandering about this afternoon, Heda?”

“I plan to speak with Luna,” Lexa answers simply.  

She can practically feel Anya’s annoyance reverberating between them as they walk. “And where exactly do you expect to find the Captain?”

“Her ships have just come into port this morning, and it is now midday. I expect Luna will either be at the pub or the brothel.”

:::

At the conclusion of the three-day summit, Lexa again prepares for travel. This time, with Clarke by her side. Before their scheduled departure, she finds herself at the busy port where Luna’s ships prepare to set sail. The success of the summit and the warming temperatures have Lexa’s chest feeling light, even in Luna’s company.

“We’ll be back at the turn of the seasons,” Luna says as she winds a thick piece of twine around her curls which have taken flight in the sea breeze. “Should there be any unforeseen altercations or occurrences that require more urgency, you will hear from me by messenger.”

As part of her new responsibilities, Luna is now charged with sailing her fleet of ships much farther than ever before. No longer merely a tradeswoman of goods and unofficial Floudonkru peacekeeper, she will now provide securities to the vast coastline. Luna will explore unfamiliar waters with the expectation of discovering new lands and the hopes of allying with other surviving peoples.

The results of Heda’s summit have dictated that three Natblida will now rule the Kyongedon in equal measure. A balance of the immeasurable power that will no longer sit entirely on Lexa’s shoulders, nor incite contempt from her northern allies. It is far too early to determine the success of these measures, but Lexa remains confident that she has done what is best for her people. Whether in times of uncertainty or general accord, the Grounders will be led by their Commander, their Captain, and their Queen.

“Should you need reinforcements of any kind, do not hesitate to request them,” Lexa tells her.

“You know I’ve never been keen on subtleties,” Luna grins, squinting her right eye into the sun. “If I need anything, you’ll know about it.”

“Safe travels to you then. And safe returns.”

“And you as well. I hear that a journey to TonDC is on the horizon.”

“Yet another festival I have failed to avoid,” Lexa bemoans in a rare moment of authentic disdain. Luna is no longer her subordinate—perhaps she never was—and Lexa wishes to foster more honest communication between them.

“Why go then?” Luna laughs, arms crossed over her chest. She leans back against one of the tall wooden posts of the docks against which her ships are tethered. Lexa’s hesitation is barely there, but Luna has always been obnoxiously perceptive at the worst of times. She nods as her grin widens. “Ah, yes. Clarke wants to attend. And you cannot disappoint her by saying no.”

“Heda’s presence is required for such events,” Lexa answers stiffly. “The festival of cherry blossoms dates back several decades as a celebration to commence the season of growth. And, I am more than capable of saying _no_.”     

Despite the bright notes of Luna’s laughter, the sound of it still grates against Lexa’s spine. “Commander of Death, my ass. Heda kom _Heda_ would have been a more accurate accolade for the revered Wanheda.”

“Shof op.”

“Perhaps we should get Clarke’s input on it?” Luna’s chin juts up the docks, and Lexa turns to see Clarke walking towards them. “Exactly how much control does she have over the impenetrable Commander?”

Anya will often prod at Lexa’s insecurities, an acceptable by-product of their close history and familial fondness. Luna is downright irreverent. Lexa has never excelled at ignoring her taunts, regardless of her training to withstand intense pressures from outside forces. Something about Luna has always cut straight to the quick.

“It is not too late to revoke your own title, _Captain_. I could just as easily have you flayed and roasted over a spit,” Lexa growls lowly as Clarke nears.

It only serves to bolster Luna’s humor—an empty threat as it is. She greets Clarke with a bright smile. “Hiya, Clarke.”

“Hey,” Clarke answers with a warm smile, stopping beside them both but close enough to Lexa that the fragrance of tea tree from her soaps and oils wafts in the air; Lexa’s shoulders instantly relax. With Clarke near, Luna’s playful barbs fall away. “Ryder wanted me to tell you that we’re ready to go whenever you’re finished here.”

“I am ready to depart as well,” Lexa says.

“Okay.” Clarke smiles in such a way that Lexa wonders for a moment if she might reach out and tangle their fingers together were they not stood among so many curious faces. Clarke looks away instead to ask Luna, “Are you leaving too?”

“Sha—oceans to explore, borders to protect.”

“Be safe out there.” Clarke’s command is as sincere as it is firm.

“Of course. The Commander of Death has restored life to my veins. It is not a gift I take lightly, Wanheda.”

“ _Jesus_. Will you please refrain from calling me that?” Clarke points an accusing finger first at Luna before directing it at Lexa as well. “ _Both_ of you.”

“Are you open to suggestions for alternative titles because I’ve given it some thought—”

At this, Lexa intervenes. “We should not delay our departure any longer, Clarke. I am happy to escort you to the front gates.”

She subtly angles herself in Luna’s direction while quickly and severely promising additional torture should Luna dare to broach the subject of _Heda kom Heda_ ever again. The words are said in low and rapid Trigedasleng in hopes that they will not reach Clarke’s ears. In response, Luna claps a firm hand against Lexa’s shoulder in that brazen way of hers and continues to smile.

“Take a swim in klinrona while you’re there, Heda. I recall it as a profound relief for stress.”

:::

“What was that all about?” Clarke asks after they have cleared the docks and moved onto a quieter road that follows the water’s edge.

Lexa feigns confusion very poorly. “Luna?”

“Is there any particular reason you’re threatening to dismember her next of kin—which is _Lincoln_ , might I remind you—or was that warm farewell simply a result of your affectionate sibling rivalry?”

Lexa puffs a breath of air and does not meet Clarke’s questioning gaze. She is grinning, that much Lexa can see from her peripheral, as she waits for Lexa’s response.

“I have grown to respect Luna. It does not mean that I have learned to like her.”

Clarke’s answering laugh gives Lexa the urge to pull her into the water and kiss her in the surf. She smiles instead, finally looking over to catch Clarke’s eye. Perhaps she can read Lexa’s true intentions because she does what Lexa is unable to, reaching out for her fingers which sway between them as they walk.

“I’m excited to be going home. We haven’t been in TonDC together since …” As Clarke trails off, Lexa again meets her eye.

They share a knowing smile—a look that enshrouds their entire history, keeping it safely between them. Even if centuries from now their stories are remembered and retold for future generations, there will be slivers of time such as this that remain sacred. Inconspicuous moments that belong only to her and Clarke.

“It has been a very long time,” Lexa says.

“I’m sorry there has to be a festival involved. I know how much you hate them, but this one has always been my favorite.”

“ _Hate_ is a strong emotion for a celebration of blossoming trees.”

“Okay well, you’re the one who once compared your dislike of festivals to risking your life by riding into battle.”

“I have always preferred the quieter aspects of leadership.”

“I know,” Clarke answers, and Lexa feels fingers flex around her own. “Some walks down by the river would be nice too.”

“Perhaps you could wander off into the tris for some time alone with your sketchbooks.”

The road before them widens as it bends towards the main gates and away from the edge of the Great Bay. A sizeable traveling party awaits them as well as the people of Polis who wish to offer their Heda a send-off of good fortune.

Clarke smiles over at her. Another moment, just for them. “And would you follow me again? To keep me safe?”

They are no longer children—precocious and daring. But, Lexa remembers it all so clearly.

She remembers that pulsing thrill from her heedless decision to trail after a girl she hardly knew. She remembers the arc of the sun through the tris and the shafts of light against Clarke’s hair. The warmth of the season and the smell of pine. Reckless curiosity that led to unexpected discovery. A touch. A look. A kiss. The same smile that watches her now.

“Yes. Every time.”

:::

The city of TonDC is ever-changing, though it retains its familiar landscape from Lexa’s childhood memories. The city center now sprawls outwards—more gardens, and squares, and housing crop up each time she is there. Upon their arrival, Lexa meets with city leaders, making time for Titus and the Natblida who have come to train there, while Clarke visits old haunts and spends time with Raven. On their first night, at the end of a long and eventful day, there is a feast in celebration of Heda’s arrival.

Lexa had hoped to spend their first morning in TonDC down by the riverside or trailing through the forests that still encircle the city. She wishes for the quiet and mundane before festivities commence in full, but Clarke has made other plans.

“I’m going to visit with Nyko for a bit this morning,” she tells Lexa as she rolls over in their shared bed. Her voice is a pleasant rasp, and Lexa shifts too, wanting to be closer to it.

She allows her hands to drift idly across Clarke’s skin as they soak up the quiet morning. Eventually, they dress slowly in the warm, morning sunlight that pours in through the massive windows.

Heda’s accommodations here are not as expansive and regal as in Polis but no less dignified. The house is new construction in a recently expanded sector of the city, built largely from refurbished materials and outfitted with the finest furnishings. There are several large, open rooms and plenty of windows—a far cry from the squat lodging of the Natblida huts where she once spent much of her time.

“Come find me later?” Clarke says it like a question that does not require an answer.

Lexa nods, accepting a kiss at the bedroom door as she resists pulling Clarke back to bed. She does not ask Clarke to stay with her, though she silently despises the separation after a night spent wine-drunk and wrapped around one another in a new bed.

After a brief episode of sulking in her unwelcomed solitude (about which Heda would unequivocally deny to anyone), Lexa finds her way to the training grounds near the city center and spends the morning sparring with the Nightbloods.

They have a relentless energy, and Lexa cannot believe she was once so full of unrestrained vigor for mastering these skills of combat. She works up a sweat in an hour’s time, correcting their narrow stances and defending the eager strikes of their training weapons. As Heda, she is required to measure their talents and make notes for improvement. But as Lexa, she feigns injury with the youngest Natblida—collapsing onto the ground in defeat more than once, inciting peals of laughter from her tiny opponents (and many looks of disapproval from Titus).

The world is still harsh in many ways; it likely always will be. But the Nightbloods are no longer bound by death as they once were. Clarke saw to that. Lexa thinks of her time spent with Clarke and wishes for this new generation to understand that survival is as much a part of life as the enjoyment of it.

When Sarak appears at the worn, wooden fencing with a cup of cold water, Lexa finally breaks from her playful sparring and is reminded that she needs to eat lunch.

“Mochof,” she says, drinking greedily as she regains her breath.

“Ryder is with Wanheda, who remains in the healing ward, Heda,” Sarak reports.

“Thank you.”

Sarak bobs her head in a respectful nod. “Of course, Heda.”

:::

Lexa enters the healing ward to find Clarke stood at the head of a table full of young fisa, fully engaged in a lesson about bindweeds. They are plucking the arrow-shaped leaves from the stems, examining the petals of the light pink flowers, and sketching into their notebooks while Clarke instructs them on cataloguing its uses for fevers and minor ledons.

 _Abrasions_ , Lexa remembers—a word once foreign from a memory long ago. Her eyes cast to a corner of the room where a bed used to be kept.

Before Heda’s presence is detected, Lexa allows herself a brief smile at seeing Clarke in her element. She is lovely for many reasons, not least of which is her devotion to the practice of healing. If she were allowed more leisure, Lexa would enjoy watching Clarke in this way more often. Clarke is the first to catch sight of her, a smile of her own slowly spreading across her lips as she finishes speaking to the group of students.

“You found me,” she grins as she approaches Lexa some minutes later.

“It was not difficult. You are rarely far from your work, even when you are meant to be visiting old friends and mentors.”

“Nyko had a bone to set so I told him I would keep an eye on things until he gets back.” Clarke’s eyes drift across the perspiration on Lexa’s brow and the neckline of her sleeveless shirt, which is shaded a darker grey from moisture. “What have you been up to?” There is a pleasant lilt to her curiosity.

“Training with the Natblida.”

“Showing off for the locals?”

Lexa’s tone does not waver, though Clarke’s challenging smirk begs her to do otherwise. “Modeling techniques and correcting poor form. My time in the training grounds is not about performance, Clarke.”

“Tell that to your gaggle of enamored spectators that I’m sure came out to watch you train with stars in their eyes.”

There had been a few onlookers and random shouts of encouragement, not that Lexa had paid them much mind. She has grown accustomed to the prospect of always being watched. Heda’s life is lived in the open—available for scrutiny at any moment. Even now, six pairs of curious eyes make every attempt at discretion, stealing glances at she and Clarke from where they sit, pretending to complete their work. Seeing Heda and Wanheda in the same place is less uncommon in Polis, but for the students of TonDC it is undoubtedly an intriguing sight.

Her awareness of this unending visibility keeps Lexa from showing any amusement, despite Clarke’s mocking tone. “I have come to collect you for lunch. Unless you would prefer to stay with the fisa until Nyko returns.”  

“No, I’m starving.” Clarke casts a fleeting glance over her shoulder and six heads snap to the table top as the young fisa return to their tasks. “Arden, tell Nyko I’ll be back tomorrow.”

A girl of no more than fifteen winters straightens her posture and clears her throat. “Yes, Wanheda.”

“They’re terrified of you,” Clarke whispers gleefully as they exit the building side-by-side, shoulders bumping.

“They are in awe of you,” Lexa counters, finally allowing her lips to arch in Clarke’s favor before they cross beneath shadowed doorways into bright sunlight.

:::

As festivals go, it is bearable. At times, even enjoyable. Having Clarke in her near-constant orbit as Lexa moves among her people certainly doesn’t hurt. Three days on and she has sampled goods from their stalls, quietly observed their works of craftsmanship, and supported their feats of strength and technology, all with Clarke either by her side or somewhere within her line of sight.

Heda makes her speeches. She toasts to a fruitful season of crops and the promise of cultivating further growth. Though she politely declines, she is offered cherry blossoms for her braids which she instead defers to Clarke, who smiles brightly to have them woven into her hair. By and large the entire ordeal carries on without her guiding hand, allowing Lexa a good portion of idle time during the festivities to sit with Clarke as unobtrusive bystanders.

(As much as they are ever far from the center of attention, in any case.)

The sun sets on another day, and it is not long before torches are lit and familiar music begins to thrum in the crowded streets. Residents and visitors gather around tall, blazing fires in the city squares as the smells of sweet wine and sizzling meat fill the air.

“Not so bad, right?” Clarke has leant in close, pressing these words against Lexa’s ear.

The music is not yet loud; the gesture is hardly necessary. Still, Lexa’s skin tingles at the base of her neck to have Clarke’s breath against her skin. By some silent understanding, they do not tend to display their relationship in these types of crowded spaces. Close proximity and brushing hands are often the extent of their affections when in the public eye. An established relationship with Clarke is hardly a well-kept secret at this point, but Lexa still savors their subtle intimacies.

“Had I known the pleasure of experiencing the festivals in your company years ago, I may not have developed such an aversion to them.”

“Does this mean you’re finally going to agree to a dance with me?”

“No.” There is no hesitation to Lexa’s response.

Clarke jabs a useless finger into her side that Lexa hardly feels beneath all of her decorative armor. “Come on, I’ve seen you fight enough times to know that you’d make an enviable dance partner.”

“I do not refrain from dancing because I lack the talent, Clarke.”

Clarke’s face creases in mild disgust. “Do your shoulders ever hurt from carrying around the weight of that massive ego?”

“If you would like to dance,” Lexa smiles, turning her eyes away from the crackling fire pit in front of which they stand. “I am certain you would not struggle to find any number of willing partners.”

“Oh, I’m not concerned with finding someone to dance with,” Clarke smirks. “That’s never really been a problem for me.”

Lexa grins and arches her brow. “And you criticize _my_ ego?”

Clarke’s mouth is open to respond—Lexa eagerly awaits the banter—but instead another voice slips into their shared space.

“For two people who don’t want anyone else to make assumptions about your sexual relationship, you’re being incredibly obvious.”

Raven sidles up to Clarke with a cup in her hand and a mildly drunken swagger in her step.

“ _Raven_!” Clarke chastises, nevertheless taking a step back from where she had been encroaching into Lexa’s personal space.

“Relax, Griffin. The average person isn’t as perceptive and not nearly as intelligent as I am.”

“Exactly how much wine have you had?” Clarke asks.

Raven scoffs, and Lexa remains silently amused. It is not often that people are willing to show her much candor, aside from Clarke. Lexa finds Raven’s insubordinate rambling as refreshing as it is entertaining.

“Listen, what’s the deal with your girl?”

Raven seems to be directing her inquiry towards Lexa, which she finds rather odd given the professional nature of their relationship. “I’m not sure I understand the question.”

“I’m talking about that skulking sociopath that’s always hanging around and trying to look intimidating,” Raven further explains while snapping her fingers.  

Somewhere nearby, Sarak chuckles, though it is Clarke who surmises, “Are you talking about Anya right now? Raven you know that she’s—”

“Unpredictably aggressive and full of herself? Potentially unhinged? Yeah, no shit.” Raven takes a long pull off her cup of wine, seemingly scanning the crowds of people for the object of her ire. “It’s like, who does she think she is walking around with enough weaponry for at least six warriors and that air of purported mystery. People are trying to relax and have a good time, you know?”

“It is not uncommon for a high-ranking member of our gonakru, such as Anya, to arm herself in this way,” Lexa replies evenly.

Clarke’s tone is laced in skepticism when she asks Raven, “Why the sudden interest?”

“She’s literally _everywhere_ all the time. I find her presence affronting.”

Raven had been a part of their traveling party to TonDC days prior, Anya as well. It was a large enough caravan that Raven and Anya could have easily traveled the entire distance without ever coming into direct contact. Lexa has never considered they would have shared any other interactions outside of this singular instance; though, Raven’s distaste has her curiosities mildly piqued.

“So, you hate her,” Clarke hedges, “but you want to know more about her?”

Raven seems to contemplate the assumption, never meeting Clarke’s eye but continuing to let her discerning gaze fall among the mingling crowds before them.

“No.”

“Okay, so—” Clarke begins, only to be interrupted.

“I don’t have any interest in getting to know her,” Raven clarifies. “I just want to be able to, you know, wipe that smug look of superiority off her face.”

Clarke’s confusion seems to give way to humor, and a challenging smile forms as she crosses her arms across her stomach. “And how exactly do you plan to do that?”

“I think I’m going to sleep with her.”

“Wait— _what_?!” Clarke almost trips over her own feet, while stood completely still, out of pure shock.

Raven finishes her drink in another long sip, handing off her empty cup to Clarke who is still too stunned to speak. Lexa’s confusion over the exchange turns to amusement, instantly caught up in watching Clarke’s jaw hang open in horror. Raven stalks off without much notice, presumably in search of Anya.  

“Did she just—are you—I can’t even—” Clarke shakes her head, looking down in surprise to see that she is holding Raven’s empty cup. “What the hell just happened here?”

Lexa exhales, tucking her hands behind her back and angling herself so that she and Clarke are again stood side-by-side. “I suppose Raven’s frustrations with Anya might very well be sorted by sleeping with her. It does seem like a rather efficient method of self-discovery.”

“Lexa! Are you kidding me right now? This is a terrible idea! Raven _loathes_ Anya. And from what I’ve witnessed, Anya very much feels the same way.”

Lexa shrugs, gently plucking the wine cup from Clarke’s hand. “People seek out intimacy for myriad reasons, Clarke—not always with the purest intentions.”

“I feel like I should try and stop her. I mean, she’s likely to get herself killed or something, right?” Clarke looks back at Lexa with some real concern. “Anya does carry a multitude of knives.”

“From what I know of Anya’s sexual conquests, which is thankfully very little, I do not expect that Raven’s proposal will be met with violence.”

Clarke’s face sours. “Okay, okay, stop. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” She rubs at her eyes and shakes her head. “The thought of Raven _propositioning_ Anya makes me feel like I ate too many jobi nuts or something.” Lexa smiles even as Clarke’s lip curls in disgust.

“Perhaps you should find a dance partner to alleviate your mind from such unpleasant musings.”

The goading suggestion serves well as distraction, and Clarke squares herself in Lexa’s direction. “Oh, I have a perfectly capable dance partner, she’s just being a stubborn killjoy.”

Before Lexa can respond, Sarak’s quiet presence appears at her side.

“Heda, apologies,” she courteously interrupts. “An ambassador from Boudalan is requesting a quick word.”

Lexa nods quietly to Sarak before returning her attention to Clarke. “I am sorry that I will not be able to join you.”

“Liar.”

Lexa’s smile returns, not at all remorseful for having sidestepped yet another obligation to participate in a festive dance. “I will not be long.”

“Take your time. I’m going to force Wells to dance with me.” Clarke reaches again for Raven’s discarded cup, considering it briefly before adding, “And find more wine.”

“Enjoy yourself,” Lexa says more sincerely. “Dancing or no dancing, I would much prefer to remain in your company.”

A look of surprise crosses Clarke’s face then as Lexa steps in closer, steady and deliberate. She softly plants a kiss to Clarke’s temple, for once unbothered by keeping any distance between them. Even Heda, encircled by an audience of carefully attentive eyes, craves affection from time to time. Against the shell of Clarke’s ear, she says, “I promise to be more agreeable later.”

“You should get out of here,” Clarke tells her while Lexa is still stood closely, “before I kiss you in front of the entire city of TonDC.”

Lexa enjoys the threat, quickly considering the thrill of seeing it through; nevertheless, she moves away from the intensity of Clarke’s gaze at a reluctant pace. There is a promise laced in the flashing blues and flickering firelight of Clarke’s eyes that keeps Lexa’s skin buzzing, even as she walks away.

:::

Their time apart, though brief, is enough to spur a potent rekindling when Lexa and Clarke return to their shared bedroom.

Clarke makes good on her prior impulses and kisses Lexa against the closed door of their room while impatiently tugging on buckles and straps to remove Heda’s armor. They work in tandem to shed the other layers between them until Lexa has Clarke’s soft skin beneath her fingertips. She crowds into Clarke’s frame as the two fight greedily for dominance with roving hands.

Lexa often finds amusement in Clarke’s refusal to admit disparities in their strengths. Despite the amount of times Lexa has proved herself superior—despite the veritable days and months and _years_ filled with countless hours of vigorous training—Clarke will not recognize any imbalance. Even now, she struggles against being overpowered by Lexa’s firm grip as they topple onto the bed, a smug grin threatening to pull at Lexa’s mouth as they break a heated kiss.

“You’re gloating,” Clarke says, panting hot breath against Lexa’s mouth. Clarke’s eyes narrow, and Lexa’s grin finally breaks free.

“Of course not. I am merely waiting to see you regain the advantage.”

Clarke vaguely attempts to wrestle Lexa onto her back, to little success. Lexa presses hot kisses against her neck to soften the defeat.

Such taunting and teasing is almost as common during these escapades as their moments of tender vulnerability, and Lexa would never want one without the other. She has always loved Clarke’s tenacious spirit and the way it battles against her own—the charge between them that is ignited by their relentless power struggle. A forceful push and pull that Lexa hopes never resolves.

Before long, Clarke has succumbed to whimpers and gasps. She clutches at the muscle of Lexa’s shoulder and tangles desperate fingers into her hair as her body writhes and trembles. Despite her best efforts, she is ultimately rendered helpless by Lexa’s mouth between her legs. For her part, Lexa never tires of the sensation of Clarke’s pulsing satisfaction against her lips and tongue. She lingers there while the climax fades, basking in her accomplishment as Clarke catches her breath.

“I forgive you,” Clarke eventually says.

“For what am I being forgiven?” Lexa smiles, wiping the pad of her thumb along her chin and lower lip to collect the excess moisture there.

Clarke’s eyes are closed. Her breathing still uneven, though she looks content. “Refusing to dance with me.”

“I did promise to make amends.”

Perhaps Clarke had made plans for how their night would unravel after leaving the festival, but Lexa had an agenda of her own. She had spent a good portion of her conversation with various delegates and dignitaries completely distracted by watching Clarke—dancing, drinking, laughing with friends.

She begins mapping a trail of kisses onto Clarke’s inner thigh, below her navel, and across the sensitive skin of her breasts—these thoughts and more fueling her adoration. Lexa continues to be amazed by her good fortune, that someone like Clarke has chosen her company not once but continuously. That the years have not made either of them less fond, but inextricably closer. Their lives have become interwoven, perhaps indefinitely, yet Lexa will still catch herself questioning the validity of their reality.

It does not seem possible that Clarke once sailed among the stars and now falls to sleep in Lexa’s bed.

“I am very happy, Clarke.” It feels superfluous, and yet she is still pressed to clarify the sentiment. “With you, here. Wherever we are. I am most happy when I am with you.”

“Ai hod yu in,” Clarke answers softly. It sounds like an echo.

A lulling silence fills the room as Lexa settles beside her, their bodies laid together and overlapping. Clarke’s calming breaths become a metronome while Lexa’s fingers trace patterns along her abdomen.

:::

They sit in a quiet wood, side-by-side. The day is warm and bright, and the fresh shoots of grass feel soft between Lexa’s fingers. A blazing sun hangs above them, shaded by a woven canopy of budding trees and fragrant evergreens. It will be their final day in TonDC before a return to Polis the following morning. Busy schedules and endless responsibilities await them both; Lexa wishes desperately to prolong this respite.

Clarke has been still and introspective for quite some time when she finally says, “It’s incredible.”

Lexa watches Clarke’s eyes roam across the towering, metallic structure before them, the sun glinting off it’s surfaces. She can see so much written in Clarke’s gaze that she will never say aloud.

“It is meant to honor your presence here—the lives you have sown into our existing fabric of survivors, as well as those that were lost when you fled your home among the stars.”

Clarke smiles sadly, her blue eyes shining with unshed tears. “They did an amazing job.”

Artists from TonDC and neighboring communities have worked diligently to complete the project. Preserved remnants of a spaceship that no longer exists have been reconstructed into a prominent sculpture just outside the city proper. Large sections of titanium, still marked with its imperfections from landing and the symbols of Clarke’s people, were fastened to lumber from the TonDC forests—a visual representation of the ways in which ground and sky have been bound together as one.

Heda has been granted her private viewing before the exhibit opens to the public, and sharing it with Clarke required no forethought. The sculpture will serve as a monument to honor those Skaikru lost and those who started anew. The people who landed with Clarke and the ones she will never see again.

The Skaikru are hardly recognizable now, completely indistinguishable from any other clan as the years flutter past. They have melded and mated, making the ground their home just as any other of Lexa’s people. The distinctions between their origins are now often forgotten for those without a keen memory of their arrival.

“I used to look for him constantly,” Clarke says without looking in Lexa’s direction.

It is not really an inquiry, but Lexa’s voice softens as she says, “Your father?”

“For years,” Clarke nods. “I wouldn’t let it go—this idea that he was out there … somewhere. That somehow he’d made it, and I just hadn’t found him yet.”

“There were many scouts employed to carry out a vast search at the time.”

“I remember.” Clarke folds her hands over her knees, which she has pulled up to her chest where they are sat in the grass of a wide clearing. “The Commander before you, she made a promise to my mom. But, nothing was ever found.”

They are surrounded by freshly felled trees and the scent of pine. The place is hushed and vacant. They sit alone among the woodland sounds of chirping birds and buzzing insects. Gustus will be nearby, always keeping watch in some capacity, but his hulking frame remains out of sight giving the illusion of isolation.

“And now?”

At the question, Clarke finally angles her head to look over at Lexa. “Do I still hope to find him?”

“Yes.”

“No. Not for a long time.”

“The world is immense. We exist within the smallest fraction. It is not unthinkable.” If nothing else, Lexa wishes to give Clarke hope.

Clarke only shakes her head, returning her gaze to the Skaikru monument before them. “I can’t live like that. Always wondering. Trying to negotiate all that uncertainty after awhile—it got to be too much for me. At a certain point, I had to let go and just … say goodbye.”

As Lexa watches Clarke, she recognizes the dimming hues in her eyes as something familiar, something else that they share. It is the sorrow of a thing forever lost.

Lexa does not know the loss of a parent, at least not in the way that Clarke has grieved for her father. She cannot alleviate this pain for her, and so Lexa pauses for long seconds before speaking again. “We are taught to honor the lives of those lost by reminding others of their existence.” She slowly reaches for Clarke’s hand, who gives it willingly. “I would enjoy hearing more about your father, if you are comfortable enough to speak of him.”

“Thanks,” Clarke smiles, bringing their joined hands to her mouth to kiss the back of Lexa’s hand. “I would like that too.”

Lexa nods towards the sculpture and says, “Would you like a closer look?”

Clarke inhales deeply and breathes out with a definitive nod. Hands latched together, they make their way down a shallow incline until they are standing in the shadows of a towering work of art. With her free hand, Clarke allows her fingers to glide across an indent in the metal as they silently stand at the sculpture’s base.

Lexa can sense that Clarke is beginning to shutter into herself—her thoughts many lifetimes away and awash in ancient memories. Wanting to be respectful of her need for silence, and perhaps even space, Lexa squeezes her hand so that Clarke meets her eye.

“I’m okay,” Clarke says, answering a question that Lexa did not have to ask aloud. “It’s kind of overwhelming, but in a good way. Thank you for bringing me here.”

“I was eager to have your first impressions as the official critique of an artistic eye.”

This makes Clarke laugh, and Lexa’s chest balloons with warmth. “ _Completely_ out of my wheelhouse. I would never dream of attempting something like this.” She pauses for only seconds before adding, “My dad could have though. He was so mechanical—an engineer’s brain, you know—but he had an artist’s eye, too.”

“What else would he have enjoyed?”

Clarke seems surprised, but delightedly so, when her head snaps to the left to meet Lexa’s expectant look. “About what? Living here?”

“Yes.”

They begin walking slowly around the base of the structure so that Clarke is intermittently cast in bright sunlight as Lexa watches her contemplate a response.

“The food, definitely. God, he would go crazy for all the different types of food. He would probably love to analyze all the structures that withstood the bombs, too. For like, an indeterminate length of time,” Clarke laughs, pulling to a stop in a patch of sunlight and turning to face Lexa fully. “The smell of rain. Swimming on really hot days. The sounds of a crackling fire. Watching the sunrise.”

“These are all very good things.”

“He would have enjoyed seeing me happy, in love.” She reaches for Lexa’s other hand, and Lexa steps in closer with a timid smile.

“He and I have that in common.”

Clarke is still lightly laughing when their lips meet, and Lexa can feel it tingling down her spine. After a few breaths, she pulls back and blinks open her eyes to see Clarke still smiling.

“It feels good to talk about him.”

“I’m pleased that you find it helpful. I promise to protect any memories of your father that you choose to share with me, Clarke.”

Their lips brush together, Clarke’s eyes slow to open when she whispers, “Thank you.”

“Should we return to the city?” Lexa asks, though it is without much conviction.

“I’d like to stay out here for a bit. Do you mind?”

Lexa answers with another kiss. She feels as if she has lived a hundred lifetimes in these woods and would live three hundred more among these very trees if Polis were not a necessary beacon of her leadership. That Clarke has always been drawn into the woods as well is yet another reason that Lexa remains so endeared to her.  

“A walk?” Clarke suggests.

With a nod, Lexa moves away from the sculpture, bringing Clarke with her from where their hands are still joined. “Yes.”

They meander father away from the developed land that surrounds TonDC while an agreeable silence settles around them. Clarke’s hand is a warm and familiar comfort in Lexa’s own as they step over fallen trees and wind their way along pathways that do not really exist if not for Lexa’s innate footfalls. She tracks the movements of Gustus and Sarak as they trail along at a distance, though their presence is hardly noticeable. Sounds and sights filter through heightened senses as they walk, and Lexa uses the arc of the sun to direct their path—skills of safety and survival that she could not ignore if she tried.

The river eventually winds around in front of them, and Lexa pauses at its shallow edge to fill a waterskin. They find a moss-covered boulder and sit at the riverbank, sharing small sips of cold water to the sound of the river.

“This is nice,” Clarke says, and even her voice is hushed by the rushing currents. “It didn’t used to be like this, I don’t think.”

“Before?”

“Yeah.” Clarke sips at the waterskin before handing it back. “All that hatred and intolerance that eventually led to the Last War. There was so much happening all the time—it must have been chaotic for our ancestors. Huge machines and giant buildings they would construct just to tear them apart and start over again. On the ground and up above. So much constant movement and noise.”

“The world has just begun to wake up,” Lexa muses. “And there are still times of chaos.”

“True, but not like Before. I hope it’s never like that again.”

She looks at Lexa as if she alone is capable of ensuring the type of world that Clarke desires. Lexa envisions a more promising future as well—to carve out an existence for themselves in this world that strives to achieve what their ancestors never could, without neglecting the struggles of the past.

The influence that Lexa holds over their people will fade, but humanity will carry on as it always has. Perhaps that unyielding resolve to survive will eventually result in more wars, spark bloody disputes in places where peace and prosperity has grown restless. In many ways, Lexa will be held responsible—not only for Clarke, but for them all.

_To fight for life is to fight for peace._

“I like the quiet,” Clarke says, breaking Lexa from her musings.

“Is that why you ran away to the beaches of Topeke?” Lexa grins while sipping from the waterskin.

“Yeah,” Clarke smiles. “That was part of it.”

The look with which she pins Lexa reveals much more than what Clarke says aloud, an explanation of her time away on the Cape that they have never discussed and yet Lexa has somehow always known.

Lexa returns her attention to the clear, sparkling water as it rushes past them. “I enjoy the quiet, too, and hope to preserve its presence in this world as much as I am able.”

At sixteen winters, Lexa took on the mantle as Heda—uniting her people as one, intent on a more promising future, and waging wars of justice on a quest for peace. But that same year, she also followed a girl into the trees—an impulse to protect her, to be near her. An inexplicable curiosity that drew her in and would eventually reshape her entire existence.

It used to be that time felt rapid and hurried—a cruel vapor of fleeting moments with Clarke that were never enough. For now, they are granted this: a quiet space together and the comfort of shared affections for a stretch of time.

As if reading her thoughts, Clarke says, “Let’s not go back just yet.” She finds Lexa’s fingers and easily twines them with her own.

And so, Lexa smiles and says, “Let’s stay here forever.”

A bird whistles overhead as Clarke returns her smile. 

Lexa did not know Clarke then, that summer when life had yet to shift and the possibilities of discovery seemed endless and infinite; but, she feels closer to her now than almost anyone. She knows the weight of Clarke’s body as she settles against her frame on the seat that they share. She knows the soft texture of her hair where it brushes Lexa’s neck when Clarke takes one of Lexa’s arms and wraps it around herself. She knows her touch and her gaze—every distinct color that swirls in her eyes. She will not forget these subtleties as long as she lives.

To have known another person as she and Clarke have in this life is never a guarantee. And for this, Lexa knows that they are both fortunate in a way that cannot be overstated. There is no way to predict their future together, but Lexa believes that she and Clarke's journey has only just begun. Clarke shifts in her arms, and Lexa exhales as the sun breaks through the trees. The river carries on before them, unending.  

:::

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to be honest: this is a tough one to wrap up and let go. I can't quite explain the nuances of what it has meant to tread warily into this incredibly talented fandom only to be so warmly received and supported. I have said it before, but I feel extremely fortunate and grateful to have been a part of it in any small way. 
> 
> I love these characters. I love what the actors themselves were able to accomplish in such a short span—bringing them to life and sparking such an impressive collection of creativity. I have only ever written for relationships that felt authentic and to which I have personally connected, and these two have managed to leave their marks, irrevocably. 
> 
> I wanted them to have more of a life than what sad pittance they were given. It goes without saying that these characters were capable of so much more than a dynamic eclipsed by poor and sloppy writing. I hope that my own attempts at writing, if nothing else, have given them a fraction more of what they deserved. 
> 
> This labor of love was such an enjoyable undertaking that was further made possible by the revision, support, and nurturing from my very good pals: weasal, grams, orange, and blindwire.


End file.
